home in a few minutes, I dare say; but tell me, was the poor bride regretted-so young to die !" hear only the tones of love and hope, and I forget all the deceit and the hollowness, and yearn for life, and dear ones to love me." "And why should not you darling Ella?" cried Hannah, eager to dissipate the sad thoughts which had overcome her sickly cousin. "The dreary winter is quickly passing; we shall have green trees, and birds, and warm winds to dance round you; and you'll be as strong as ever, never fear! But hark! I hear voices in the hall: there are our friends." And she was right. "No, not at all-the heir was charmed to get his possessions, and the bridegroom did not dislike the share which he made his own by help of the guardians; they made their per centage, and he got a new wife before the year was out. As for the peasants, they were only too glad to stop the building of the castle on the haunted islet. It is said that when the first rumour of the death spread among them, the bearers of stones from the quarry, in their joy, dropped their burdens on the road, and departed. And to this day the legend lovers point out a huge heap of stones on the track between the quarry and the island; and also the ruins of a tower, built of the same sort of stone, is still visible on the islet. So you see, Ella, even sceptics like myself are silenced, if not convinced, particu" larly when Master Charles Macdonald tells the story," "I am sure he would have been flattered to have heard your recollection of his words." "They were more interesting than his looks," said Hannah, laughing. "It is a sad story," said Ella, musingly, "and yet it is true. The love of anything higher and more spiritual than are man's daily aspirations, is fraught with suspicion and contempt to its entertainer. He who sets out in life with loftier views than his fellows, has to encourage them secretly, and to be condemned even then. And if he fail in fidelity to that glorious worship, if he be persuaded or frightened from his enthusiastic hopes, from that moment the sickness of self-rebuke seizes upon him; and even in the moment of worldly success, the memory of what he once adored, the idol so immeasurably superior to his own degraded joys, poisons that weak spirit for ever." "What a pretty allegory you have made of my Celtic legend, Cara?" "Most legends have an allegoric meaning, at least I always find them out for myself. But oh, Hannah! you don't know how much I think on this strange life of ours, this tangled, confusing web. Sometimes in my gloomy moments I bless heaven for the low clear voice in my heart that tells me I shall die young. Then I see how what is called experience corrupts and debases the immortal soul. How few people grow better, Hannah, as they grow older! They get more wary, more careful to conceal such faults as militate against their worldly success but the inside of the cup and the platter! Oh! how often to the most cautious there comes a temptation which, as it were, turns the soul topsy-turvy, and shows all that had been so sedulously hidden-all the selfishness, the lust of wealth, the lack of charity to the fallen, the fawning on the powerful. Hannah, in these moods I thank God that death is stamped upon my brow. But then," and her soft eyes filled with tears-" then, Hannah, I have other moods, | when everything round me looks bright and alluring, and I see only the fair outside, and Sweet, happy laughter rang through the lofty passages of that old house; and trooping in at the door of their sick sister's boudoir, three beautiful girls danced as lightly as if the fatigues of the night were only beginning. "Well, Ella!" cried the youngest, "not in bed yet?—I suppose Hannah has been telling you all her love affairs. I wish you joy, fair cousin ;" and wish you joy, fair cousin!" was echoed by the others. "What is this?" cried Ella; "Hannah has been talking of ghosts all night." “Oh, Ella! she has played us all false; she has been pretending to hate Charles Macdonald, and declared she would stay away from the ball to avoid meeting him; and do you know she is actually engaged to him; all the officers in his regiment were there to-night, and told us so. Ah! you'd have been finely quizzed, Miss Hannah, if you had gone!" "Well, was not that a good reason for not going, Jane?" said Hannah, crumpling her cousin's sash-ends fatally in her confusion. "Don't spoil my sash in the same way you've spoiled my flirtation," answered Jane, half pettishly; "did not you recommend Charles Macdonald to my good graces, with such a long list of his praises of me, which I now see were all false" "On the contrary, perfectly true," continued the provoking Hannah; "remember he had not seen you when he sought me in Scotland: if he had, we might change places now; you are too pretty for a rival.” "What folly you are putting into Jane's head!" remarked Sarah, the eldest of the family. "Ella, I have a message for you from Harry Vane-he looked so handsome to-night, in spite of his one epaulette! He was very much grieved at your illness, and bade me tell you he had brought a case of stuffed humming-birds from Brazil, which he caught for you. So you see, dear, he has not forgotten you, and the merry days we used to have; and mamma asked him here to-morrow to dinner. And, Ella," continued the speaker, "his ship is ordered to the Mediterranean, and mamma has begged a passage in it for you and Hannah, who is to be your chaperone; and Dr. Somers says, a year in Italy will set you up entirely; and that long before you are married we shall hear no more of consumption." These last words were breathed in a low whisper, close to the sister's ear; but Ella heard every syllable, and sinking her head on Sarah's shoulder, wept for joy and gratitude. SOUL of "impassion'd truth !" Spirit, I turn to thee, as one of them That dare essay, with the brave faith of youth, To touch thy garment's hem! Spirit, whom I had met, When first my mother led me to thy throne, The field and woodland, when thy voice as yet, Though heard, was all unknown Thou, whom of later time All recognized, I heard my soul within, I mourn not-though replete In song thou mouldest some beneath thy sway For thou hast buoy'd mine heart To strong endeav'rings-not, I trust, all vain. Come when the world shall call Me forth, and, fearless of men's praise or blame, Come when Oppression stands, THE FORSAKEN. He stood in his home, where around him lay There is dust on each face, in the gilded frame; Some gentle hand may attune again But who-what hope-what cheering sun Again o'er his sorrow he held command, I will not curse thee; for my foolish heart Hand-clench'd, above earth's weak ones; aid me For burning tears have found their way at last, then To move-e'en as the billow moves the sands The hard, stern hearts of men ! Come to me when my thought Flows as a swollen tide when forests nod And blotted all-but pity for the past. I did not deem my heart had still such store; 'Neath Autumn's wail-with sombre shadows fraught, They would but spur the memory on, to call Turn thou its course to God! Come in all time and place; For wheresoe'er thou art, Truth rife must be. Come, then, unto my soul, When it is fill'd with beauty, to prepare Up dreams of bliss that never more on me Shall shed their light. Oh, God! that this should be! Look on the portrait of that noble boy; Mark well his life of pride, his smile of joy! Then think on him, deserted and alone, From whose sad cheek that smile's for ever flown !— Look on, and weep, and let these last lines tell Pardon from one who loved thee all too well. The ground was sheeted with snow; the trees waved their hoary branches slowly in the wind, scattering, as they did so, showers of crisped snow-flakes around: the ivy which mantled the old Hall of Arlham was loaded with white, and gave to the building an almost spectral appearance, when the moon occasionally peeped forth from amid the heavy clouds, and shed her cold blue rays down on it. Afar off on the rising eminence might be here and there seen some of the lights in the cottage windows at Arlham, and mellowed and harmonized by the distance came the merry peal of the church bells, now rising and swelling upon the night breeze, now dying away to a gentle murmur, which scarcely broke the stillness of nature. Such was the scene outside Arlham Hall; but within how different! In the servants' hall the merry jest, the jocund song, the foaming tankard, went round the noisy and somewhat boisterous assembly there congregated; while in the upper hall music echoed, a gay throng danced to its enlivening strains, smiles, honied words, low sweet laughs, were there; the seniors played at cards, or chatted in groups; the fire blazed brightly in the wide old chimney, and its flashes were reflected, like countless glowworms, in the bright leaves of the holly which decorated the hall; it was a scene of gladness care appeared banished from all hearts, and hope and joy shed their radiance instead. But, as we contemplated the Hall from the outside, we surely marked one window amid all the dark ones, through which shone a light. Who is this that mingles not in the throng, that is not drawn into the focus of hilarity? It is a quaintly but luxuriously furnished chamber into which we look; the fire burns brightly on the hearth, and at the further end of the room is a lamp, the light of which seems lost amidst the heavy draperies and massive furniture. Before the fire stands an antique, high-backed chair of black velvet and carved oak; a female form is seated therein, as stiffly, as immovably, as the upright back itself: the red glare of the fire falls full upon a face by no means beautiful. She may be some twenty-eight or thirty years of age, and looks as old; the eyes-large and clear, and in hue like the violet -are lustreless; the brow slightly marked by lines; the cheek pale as wax, and of that clear, cream-like hue on which colour seems a blemish; the mouth compressed until its expression is half sad, half satirical. She is dressed as if for the revel, and her dark rich velvet drapery gives majesty to her tall, willow-like figure. Why is she here alone, so silent-so sad, if we may judge by the quivering lip, and the pearly drops which hang on her long black lashes? Arise, fair dreamer, and join in the gay throng below; welcome in the new year, and bid a cheerful farewell to the old one; nor bend your eyes so fixedly on those burning logs! Hush! Memory is unfolding her portfolio before those dreamy eyes; the past is again before her, with all its bitterness, all its happiness. Are you endowed with the gift of clairvoyance? If so, you may look on what she sees, and feel what she feels. Now the wind bears the full peal of the bells to her ears; but to her they sound not merry, but solemn-a requiem to the past, not a glad harbinger of the future. Behold! 'tis the same old Hall we saw but now; the holly looks as cheerful and bright, the fire blazes and crackles, the curtains fall as warmly. On either side of the hearth are seated a stately lady and gentleman: she has her hoop, ruffles, stomacher, and powder; he his brocaded velvets and satin and his pigtail: 'tis the Baron and Lady of Arlham. And now the door opens, and a lovely girl and boy of some eight or nine years of age bound in, and rush up to the Baron and his lady to caress and be caressed: they are followed by a thin, pale, sickly looking child, who steals in and stands hesitatingly half way between the door and the fire, until a young man of some nineteen or twenty years of age, very plainly attired, but exceedingly handsome, arises from a seat he occupied apart from the others, and leads her to a chair. The parents survey their beautiful offspring with rapture, and cannot sufficiently admire and caress them; guests begin to pour in, the music sounds, dancing commences; there is supper: the chimes ring out their merry peals, and healths and good wishes circulate. "A happy new year to you, Mary," said the young man to the pale girl, who had sat silently and unnoticed where he first placed her, until he came to lead her to supper. "I thank you, Sir," she replied in a low musical voice. "I thank you for your kindness; but will it be a new year, and not a continuation of the old one?" "It will be another year, Mary; we know what have been the events of the past, the future is in God's hands. But why are you not more cheerful?" will awaken her mother; for herself, each clang seems to beat upon her temples and make them throb more violently. "Another year!" she mutters; " another year of suffering has passed over our heads! Those bells, they distract me. How can any one call them merry? Yet to the happy all is gladsome-to my cousin Florence -to Falkland. Will he ever return?" Mary, I am so cold and faint!" murmured a feeble voice. "Give me something to drink." The girl looked round despairingly; every spare article of clothes was already heaped upon the bed-every morsel of coal and wood burned and nothing but water remained to moisten the fevered lip. She sprang up, scarcely conscious of a purpose, and hurried into the streets. The keen frosty air whistled past her, sharp sleet drove in her face, but she seemed insensible to outward impressions; she only felt that her mother and herself were perishing with hunger. On, on she went, aimless, purposeless, until her progress was impeded by a knot of people assembled to watch the guests arrive at a "I cannot be, cousin Falkland, while I remember that my mother is alone, ill, and perhaps suffering deprivations. Had she not bid me, I should not have come to spend a Christ-large house, whence sounds of music and mirth mas here, where all but you are strangers, where all but you forget that such a being as Mary Beaufort exists. My uncle and aunt are ashamed to own me because I am poor and plain; my cousins deride me because I am sad and shy; you only are kind.” "Poor child!" murmured the young man as he put his arm round her, and imprinted a kiss on her brow. The dreamer's eyes lost for a few seconds their stony gaze, and a world of tenderness swam in their depths, while her lips murmured "Falkland! cousin! brother!" The wind swept by in an angry howling gust, and seemed to dash the echo of the chimes against the walls; the logs fell together with a dull crash, and left a dark ashy cavern. The scene changed; another picture was before her. It was a small chamber, faintly lighted by a rushlight and the dying embers of a scanty fire. The walls were rough plaster; a curtain of coarse check waved to and fro before the window as the keen blast rushed in through the broken panes; a miserable truckle-bed stood in one corner, and on it reposed an emaciated woman; by its side was a common wooden table, on which was a cup, a phial, some thread and scissors, and the rushlight in a tin candlestick; a girl was busily plying her needle by the flickering light, and ever and anon looking up from her work to watch the slumberer, who tossed her thin bands about, and murmured broken sentences in her restless sleep. There, now you catch a glimpse of her face; it is that same pale, silent child, only older by some few years, more sad, more careworn; there is nothing of the brightness, the gladness of youth in her thin, pinched features, in her fragile, attenuated form; she looks scarcely less ill than the woman on the bed. Hark! the chimes from a neighbouring steeple begin to ring out a merry peal. The girl looks anxiously towards the bed, and fears the noise issued. A carriage had just drawn up, and the gentleman bad alighted as the distracted girl forced her way onwards; it was but a brief sentence he addressed to the footman, yet the tones of his voice spell-bound her, and stretching her arms towards him she uttered his name and fell exhausted at his feet. 1. There is a tap at the door, the dreamer turns impatiently and the picture has fled. A smart femme de chambre trips in. "All are asking for her lady-it will soon strike twelve. Will her lady not descend to the hall? At least she will mend the fire, it is almost out she wonders her lady is not perished." These are the audible outpourings of her spirit, but in her heart she wonders yet more how any one can sit moping there alone instead of joining in the dance, and only wishes she were a lady, she would make better use of her time. 1 At last the chatterer has departed! But the visions thus rudely chased away will not be recalled in an instant; the chain of thought has been broken, and the present has taken the place of the past. The present! that period which alone is ours, in which alone we can act that present which is so undervalued and unnoticed, but which contains the fruits of the past, the seeds of the future, both temporal and eternal! She, the plain, sickly, despised child of a younger branch of the Beaufort family, who had married beneath his station, and "been cast off by his relatives; she had seen her noble cousin cut off in the very prime of his life by an unforeseen accident; had heard that his mother died of a broken heart for the loss of her beautiful, her beloved boy; had, after the death of her own mother, watched over Florence with more than a sister's love through all the heartrending fluctuations of consumption, and followed that bright and lovely creature to the tomb; aye, and wept over her, and would have given her own life to have saved that one so precious to Falkland. And now she sat there an heiress, the lady of that fair domain, courted, flattered, followed-for her wealth-but alone! alone with her blighted heart, her sad memories, her crushed spirit. The child nurtured amid tears, trials, and woes, could not expand to a cheerful, happy woman; could not forget that she was still the same as ever; it is only her circumstances have changed. Yet formerly, who cared if she sat alone, working, weeping, starving-but one, but Falkland? He had been ever kind, and had never lost sight of her but for the period that he accompanied Lady Florence to Italy. of her blighted youth, her neglected childhood ---none save Falkland; and he perhaps never thought about it, for he had never known her otherwise. Supper was served, and withdrawing from her side, he gave way to the memories which that scene and those sounds recalled. But a few short years since, and his Florence had presided there, the very queen of joy, beaming with happiness and beauty, gladdening all hearts and delighting all eyes; and beside her was her brother, a youthful Apollo in form; and the proud parents could not sufficiently admire those fair scions of their house. Now where were they? Tenants of the cold grave! a banquet for the red earth-worm! And Yes he had been kind, but his heart, his soul, ere another year has winged its flight, how many was devoted to the beautiful Florence; and as of those now present, laughing and jesting so he worshipped her, so did the lonely Mary wor-gaily, full of health and vigour, may also have ship him, hiding beneath her calm exterior a world of devoted affection, which lavished itself on her idol's idol during that fair girl's life, and then was crushed down and hidden. "This is weakness!" she murmured, as these latter thoughts flitted across her mind. "I must not, will not yield to them. What is he to me or I to him now? I'll descend!" Slowly, and step by step, was the lady of Arlham Hall taking her way to join her guests when the words, "But where's Mary? where's your lady?" uttered in well known, dearly loved tones, reached her ear, and caused her to bound | with the lightness of a fawn down the staircase, and stand with a beating heart and trembling limbs before a handsome-looking man of some five-and-thirty or forty summers, who had evidently just arrived. "In time to wish you a happy new year, and many of them, my fair cousin!" he said, grasp ing her hand with friendly warmth. "Ah! there goes the midnight hour; another leaf has dropped from our coronal, Mary, and mine are becoming scarce now. We must treasure those which remain, and endeavour to make them like those of the French flower, immortels. But come, let us join your guests and exchange good wishes." Have you ever seen a glacier on a cold, bleak day, looking hard, frigid, and repelling; and then viewed it when lighted up by a cheerful sun, reflecting in its pinnacles and icy pendants all the rich prismatic hues of the rainbow, and as it were glowing with radiance? Such will be a very suitable type of what our heroine was when first we looked upon her in her solitary chamber, and what she now is, as, on Walter Falkland's arm, she moves among her guests. "Tis true her words were few, but there was ever something in Mary Beaufort's voice, at least when it was not marred by bitterness, which went to the heart; it was low, rich, and somewhat melancholy in its cadence-the very echo of her smile. Neither was joyous: how could it be, when joy was a stranger to her heart? Some admired that subdued manner, that almost diffidence; some deemed it an affectation of humility; but none knew that it was the effect quitted this mortal scene! That pale, spirit-like girl, who presided over the festivities-nay, even he himself, may have fallen beneath the shaft of death! He aroused himself from his reverie; for, strange to say, though we all know that we journey to the cold damp grave, few like to meditate upon it; and if their attention be momentarily called to this momentous fact, they eagerly chase away the melancholy reflection, and plunge anew into life. Spring came, with its snowdrops, its primroses, and violets; the hedges and trees began to be clothed with green; birds twittered and chirped, and flew busily about; nature once more unfolded its beauties and treasures beneath the vivifying warmth of the sun. And in similar degree, and with like richness, did the mind and heart of Mary expand and develope their hidden wealth, their pure bright springs, under the genial influence of Falkland's manly, energetic, and intellectual spirit. The mists of despondency rolled away; she began to dwell upon present employments, and future plans for the improvement of the condition of her tenantry, instead of brooding over the past; to be grateful for the blessings she enjoyed, for the mercies vouchsafed to her, instead of repining over bygone sorrows; and to see how many there were in this world who mourned, how few had great cause for rejoicing. It has been beautifully said that suffering “is not a dark thread winding every now and then through a warp of dazzling brightness, but it is interwoven with the whole texture. Not that suffering exceeds enjoyment-not that life, if viewed simply with reference to pleasure, is not a great good; but to every man it is a struggle: it has heavy burdens and deep wounds for each; trials are not incidental, but designed to work out God's purposes, and we know nothing of life until we have learned to comprehend their uses and to accomplish them." Something of this Mary at first had dim glimpses of, and gradually she learned to comprehend that suffering was meant to draw man closer to his species, instead of isolating him; to soften, and not harden the heart. Often did she find the most heartfelt gratitude, the most |