interposed Rose, laughing. "At least I should not have supposed that the last couplet of your verse would have applied either to our climate or to us few poor 'living wights' who have the misfortune, if you will, to live under its influence."

"I was about to make the same remark, Miss Vincent. You see the description thus applied is not perfect; but, nevertheless, I seem to exemplify in my own case the truth of it. I don't work, and am rather too big to play, I suppose: or, if I were not, it is dreary to play alone; and where shall I look for a playfellow ?"

"Your languor is the effect of sickness and weakness, and not of indolence, I hope. Wait till you are quite recovered before you condemn yourself, Mr. Rivers," said the young lady. "But I beg your pardon: I interrupted you, and broke in upon your poem very rudely. Pray go on.'

“I will omit a stanza or two, out of mercy to your endurance, Miss Vincent. The poem then proceeds thus:

"Full in the passage of the vale, above,

A sable, silent, solemn forest stood;

Where nought but shadowy forms was seen to move,

As Idlesse fancied in her dreaming mood:

And up the hills, on either side, a wood

Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro,

Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood;
And where this valley winded out, below,

The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow.

A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was,

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
For ever flushing round a summer sky:
There eke the soft delights, that witchingly
Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast,
And the calm pleasures, always hover'd nigh;
But whate'er smacked of noyance, or unrest,
Was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest.'

"I remember no more distinctly, Miss Vincent; and I fear I

have given you but a meagre specimen of the skill of the poet in depicting the allurements of a vice to which, if biographers do not speak untruly, he himself was prone.'

"The greater pity, Mr. Rivers: for surely no man, nor woman either, can have a right to be idle in this world. The night cometh, indeed, in which no one can work; but while the day lasts life must have been given for a higher purpose than to be spent in and around any Castle of Indolence."

"And this lovely spot has been mine-my Castle of Indolence, you would say, Miss Vincent. Well, I shall leave it soon, very soon."

Rivers sighed involuntarily as he spoke. He would have recalled the suspiration, but it was too late, and it reached his companion's ear, and conveyed an unintentional reproach to her mind.

"I hope not," she said, kindly; "you ought not to leave us till you are quite well. For the credit of nurse Catherine's surgery and skill in simples, you must stay till then. Think," added Rose, playfully, "of the disgrace of having you returned upon our hands as uncured.”

"You offer me an inducement to leave you at once, Miss Vincent," said Rivers.

"What! the danger of a relapse ?”

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'No, not exactly; but the hope of being permitted to return.' "To our Castle of Indolence, too? Nay, then, I must think you are more seriously infected than I supposed," said Rose.

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"I do not know; I am not sure," said the young man: "I only know that the repose and kindness I have experienced in this very lovely spot make me loath to leave it; and yet leave I

must."

"When your nurse gives you her gracious permission, not before," said Rose, peremptorily. And then she added, hastily, "Nurse Catherine, I mean. You must know that she is a very

absolute and despotic nurse: she believes she has had the greater share in your recovery so far; and she will not hear of having her good work spoiled."

"But if I were to say that duty beckons me away, Miss Vincent

"Then duty must be obeyed, sir; but is it not a new light which has been thrown upon duty?" the young lady asked, as she might have asked a brother. "It is but a day or two since you spoke of the uncertainty of your future course."

"It is uncertain. Would that I could end the uncertainty," said Rivers.

They walked on together after this, some little time, in silence. When Rivers spoke again it was in a tone of greater decision, mingled with almost mournful tenderness.

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"I must leave you soon, Miss Vincent. I have no right to intrude my presence longer on-on your father and yourself. Believe me, I shall never forget your many, many kindnesses; but your father thinks and I think with him—that even the most open-hearted hospitality has its limits; and I fear I do not stand very high in his favourable opinion. I speak too plainly, perhaps," he added, as he saw a troubled, or at least an embarrassed expression on Rose's countenance;" but you know I have no claim on his regards; and he is right in withholding that confidence which I have in no way proved myself to have deserved."

"You do not understand my father, Mr. Rivers; you sadly misconstrue him; you do not know why- Rose said this hastily and without premeditation; and then she suddenly paused, while a deep blush suffused her cheeks. "He does not dislike you, indeed," she continued; "and if he withholds confidence from you, alas! to whom does he impart it? Besides, my poor father is borne down by sorrows and bereavements; he is getting old; his mind is troubled; but I am sure it would add to

his grief were he to know that—that a guest had been driven from the shelter of his roof by scruples like those at which you have hinted. Perhaps," added Rose, after a pause, "it may be unmaidenly in me to speak so freely to a stranger

"Not a stranger, Rose," interposed Rivers.

"I will speak as a friend to a friend, then, and ask you, for my sake, not to withdraw from our society sooner than needs be, from motives derived from courtly etiquette. We are countrybred here, Mr. Rivers, and do not understand modern fashions. We try to make up for the loss of this knowledge by plain, homely sincerity."

"In plain, homely sincerity, then, Miss Vincent, I will accept the invitation thus given, and venture myself a little longer this he said with a smile-" in the Castle of Indolence. Another week, surely, will bring me tidings of the fate of my companions, and then

Before Rivers could complete the sentence, his attention was drawn to a solitary figure advancing straight towards himself and his companion from the wood-crowned height. It was no "shadowy form," like those surrounding the Castle of Indolence, however, but a being of flesh and blood.

The personage whose unexpected appearance interrupted the conference we have imperfectly reported was one of the Indian guides, or runners, already mentioned in this narrative. He was clad in the ordinary peaceful habiliments of his tribe, and it required no very acute discernment on the part of the two watchers to perceive that he was exceedingly weary and way worn, so that every step he set on the greensward cost him a strong and painful effort. As he drew nearer, however, he quickened his pace, and before many minutes had elapsed he stood before the young Englishman, and, after a few words of brief salutation, put into his hands a packet which he drew from a satchel that hung at his side.

It is scarcely necessary to say that, after an apology, graciously accepted, Rivers hastily broke the seal of what proved to be a bundle of letters; and, while he was making himself acquainted with their contents, Rose beckoned the Indian to follow her to her father's house.

CHAPTER XLII.

LETTERS FROM HOME.

THE letters which, at the close of our last chapter, we left Harry Rivers busily perusing were both varied in their contents and important to the fortunes of him to whom they were addressed.

First of all was a letter from one of his late companions in the exploring expedition which had been brought to so disastrous an ending, and who had heard of Harry's rescue and safety from the Indian guides. This letter was so far satisfactory to the reader, that it assured him of the escape of some, at least, of his friends from the perils by which they were surrounded.

The next despatch Rivers opened was an official document, requiring his presence at Quebec as early as his health would permit him to travel, and stating that, should he accept it, employment was awaiting him until plans should be ripened for another expedition.

Having satisfied himself respecting the contents of these papers, he laid them aside, and sat down on a grassy knoll to read with more attention a series of epistles in the superscriptions of which he recognised the hand of his aunt Melly, and which dated from about the time of his leaving England to the latest mail. It will be understood that Harry's absence on the expedition had prevented these letters from before reaching his hands.