with and knowledge of the world of civilisation and politeness, was dazzled and bewildered, while pleased, with the combined brilliancy, vigour, and gentle courtesy of the adventurous knights (knights-bachelors, too) who had thus invaded her father's domains.

Do not mistake Rose Vincent, however. She was no simpleton, ready to “fall in love" with the first “proper man that came in her way. She was not prepared to say, with Miranda

"There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple:

If the ill-spirit have so fair a house,
Good things will strive to dwell with't."

She could enjoy the intellectual converse and lively repartees and exuberant spirits of her father's guests, and yet remain heartwhole. Depend upon it, fair reader, there is no immediate danger of this sort for Rose. Perhaps, as "in the multitude of counsellors there is safety," so in the multitude of objects of attraction there is safety also. We cannot say how this may be: we only expressly state that the good sense and religious principles of our heroine (we have found a heroine for our story at last) preserved her from the folly at which we have hinted.

Nevertheless, there was danger; the more so that Rose did not suspect it and was not forearmed against it. The fascinations of educational polish, combined with the manliness and ardour of youthful enterprise, gave a charm to this new society. Moreover, she was grateful to the young adventurers for the relief they had brought to her father's wounded spirits. There was a charm, too, in the uncertainties and perils into which they were about to venture. She shrunk and shuddered within herself when she thought of these perils, and pictured one fearful scene after another, as the probable if not certain accompaniment or termination of the expedition on which they were bound; while-strange contradiction!-she half wished that she were a man, to share in

these hazards. The danger, then, to which Rose Vincent was exposed was simply that of having her mind unsettled from the dull realities and common duties of her position, and her imagination unhealthily stimulated by the memory of these fleeting moments of enjoyment.

If Rose and her father were pleased with their guests, the guests were no less pleased with their hosts. Nothing loth, they closed with an invitation to remain several days at the settlement, employing or amusing themselves during the day in excursions in the surrounding forests, or in boating on the adjacent river, meeting at night around Mr. Vincent's hospitable board. On one of these occasions, while Rose was listening eagerly to one of the guests (a remarkably tall and handsome young Englishman), who was describing some curious old ruins in his native country, with which he was evidently familiar, her attention was recalled to her father, whose countenance bad become pallid, as from the effects of a painful spasm, and who, after a momentary hesitation, suddenly rose and left the table.

The indisposition of the host was so obvious that the previous conversation instantly ceased, and Rose, declining the offers of more than one of the guests to render any assistance in their power, followed her father to his own room, whither he had retired. She found him considerably agitated, and pacing the room with unequal steps. She sprung directly to his side.

"Father! dear father! what is this?"

The question was met by a deep, sorrowful groan. "You are ill. My dear father!”

"No, no; there is nothing serious, my girl. A sudden pain, nothing more. I shall soon be better," he said, with an evident effort which belied his pretences. "Leave me, Rose: I will presently return to the people below. They will think it strange

for us both to leave them thus."

"They will not mind: they saw why I left them. I cannot

leave you while you are suffering. Only tell me what I can do for you, father."

"Nothing, nothing. See, I am well again now; and if I were not, the malady lies too deep for your medicines to touch. But, tell me, when are those people going?"

"Do you mean from the room?”

"From the room-the room! No; when are they going away, quite away?"

"My dear father!"

"It is a simple question, Rose. Cannot you answer me?" demanded Mr. Vincent, rather testily.

"I was only wondering. Do you not remember that they had fixed to leave us to-morrow, but that you urged them to remain two days longer?" said Rose, more and more concerned for her father, whose bodily suffering must be severe, she thought, thus to unsettle his mind.

"Did I? The more fool I, then, my dear; but, as it is, we must put up with them, I suppose. By the way, what is the name of that talkative young fellow to whom you were listening so intently just now ?"

"Do you mean Mr. Rivers, father?"

"Is his name Rivers? Well, my love, I-I somehow-I think you listen too much to that young man, Rose." "Father!"

"There's no harm in it, my darling."

"I am sure there is no harm in it, father," said Rose, quietly and distinctly.

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No, there is no harm in it, my dear," echoed Mr. Vincent, dreamily; "and now, Rose, suppose you return to our visitors. I am better now; and they will think a hundred odd things of us for leaving them so strangely."

“They know I am with you, and that you are ill; so they will not think it strange," said Rose.

“But I tell you I am not ill. There—I am quite myself again now." And Mr. Vincent made a strong effort to appear at his ease. It failed, however, and he added, "Go, Rose; make any apology you please. Excuse me as best you can, and say that I am unable to see them again this evening. I want to be alone, my girl," he added, impatiently.

“And can I do nothing for you, dear?" said Rose, as she yet lingered by her father's side, and looked up confidingly as well as inquiringly into his face.

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Nothing, Rose, nothing. You drive me wild with your—I don't mean that, either; but leave me now, there's a good girl." So Rose returned to the visitors, and apologised for her father's continued absence, on the ground of indisposition; and the party soon separated. But, long after the guests had retired to rest, Rose remained below, thinking sadly of her father and herself, and listening to his steps as with increasing tread he paced his chamber overhead to and fro, to and fro.

On the following morning, however, Mr. Vincent met his guests as usual, returned their greetings courteously, and accepted their condolences gratefully. Nothing particular transpired on that day or on the next; and on the following morning the party of explorers left the settlement. There was one of them who lingered behind the rest, as though loth to depart; and—

"You will think of us poor wanderers sometimes, Miss Vincent,” he said, kindly, as her little hand rested for a moment in the honest grasp of his broad palm.

"Surely, Mr. Rivers," she replied: "we have so few friends that "—and then, perhaps remembering her father's caution, she left the remainder of the sentence unspoken.

"If we should ever meet again, Miss Vincent, I shall hope to be numbered among that happy few: till then

And then the farewell was spoken, and the forester strode quickly after his companions. For a time Rose stood and watched

the group as they walked over the clearing. At length she saw them enter the wide forest; and then she turned to her father, took his offered arm, and with him walked slowly back to the house.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

ROSE.

It was well for Rose Vincent that her daily and important occupations in the management of her father's establishment gave her but scant time for vain imaginings. No doubt for a little while after the departure of the guests she felt those duties to be more common-place and wearisome than she had been accustomed to consider them; but good sense and piety came to her aid. "I am very foolish," she said to herself, "to think so much of that pleasant time, and more foolish still to try to remember the soft flatteries which were addressed to me by my father's guests. It is sinful of me to repine that my lot was not cast in the crowded city instead of in this beautiful solitude; and I will not repine."

Rose had no encouragement from her father to dwell upon any remembrances of their late visitors. It was evident to her that, however genuinely he had welcomed them to the settlement and pressed their stay, their departure was a relief to his mind. She traced this change in his feelings to the evening of his strange discomposure, and could not help fancying that the change arose simply from natural watchful jealously on her own account. "My poor father," Rose thought, "was afraid of my committing some folly. He told me as much said that I was too fond of listening to Mr. Rivers; Harry Rivers, they called him. And I was fond of listening to him; but I am sure now,