ening her, without speaking even a warning With some confusion, yet more grace, she

word ?"

Mrs. Matley hesitated, and there was evidently a struggle in her mind between her habitual respect towards me, and her indignation that a comparative stranger should venture to interfere in her family affairs.

"You are young, madam," she said, at last, "to think so gravely of these things. I have seen much of the world in my time, and I know Mr. Courtland well. There is nothing to fear for Ellen's happiness. Many thanks for your kind anxiety about her, but I assure you you mistake the matter altogether."

I

"I hope I do," I replied; "but young as I may be, I know something of human nature. love Ellen, and have studied her character, and I own that I tremble for her now." I then told her of the scene I had unintentionally witnessed a few days before, but she merely seemed annoyed that I should know anything about it, repeating that I took a mistaken view of the whole affair, and that Mr. Courtland was the most honorable of men.

"I say nothing against him," I answered; "but you, who, as you say, know something of the world, must feel the impossibility of his marrying your daughter; and Ellen, with a mind to appreciate refinement, and a heart to feel kindness, what must be the consequence of his present devotion to her? She will love him even as her earnest nature is capable of loving, and then she must be dissatisfied and unhappy for the rest of her life. I have thought it right to speak openly to you, Mrs. Matley, as a sincere friend of your daughter, and because it sometimes happens that those nearest at hand see less than those at a little

distance. Give my love to Ellen, and tell her, if you will, all that I have said. I am going from home," I added, rising to depart, "and shall be absent several weeks.'

presented Mr. Courtland, who was energetic in his expressions of admiration of the scenery, "though,' he added, smiling, "this stream has been the boundary of my wanderings till today."

"Do you make a long stay here?" I asked; and I observed that Ellen seemed scarcely to breathe while awaiting his reply.

"I hardly know, indeed,' "he said. "I have had good sport as yet; and I am so eager a fisherman that I do not like to go while I am successful. Besides, my good friend Mrs. Matley makes me so comfortable that I have already imbibed an ardent love for forest-life."

"Have you been successful to-day?" I inquired, somewhat maliciously, I confess, for I saw no sign of rod or basket. "Mrs. Matley told me you were fishing."

"I have not done much to-day," he answered, eyeing me suspiciously;" the fish would not rise, so I took to exploring a little."

I turned to Ellen. 66 May I ask you to walk a little way with me? I have a few words to say before we part. You will excuse my stealing your companion for awhile, Mr. Courtland?"

He bowed with a look of considerable annoyance, and I walked away with Ellen. We were both silent for some time: for my part I did not know how to introduce the subject that was uppermost in my mind, and Ellen seemed full of thought. At length I said—

Ellen, you are the very soul of truth: do you know what it is of which I wish to speak to you? Answer me from your heart."

For a moment she hesitated, then raising her clear, truthful eyes to mine, she said

66

"I will not pretend to doubt your meaning, but I assure you, you are mistaken-you do not know him."

"But I know you, Ellen; and there are few in this world dearer to me than you have long been;" and I repeated the cautions I had already offered to her mother. She listened attentively, and with

I thought I saw a gleam of satisfaction in my hearer's eye as I spoke; and when on my way homewards I pondered on what had passed, every moment strengthened my conviction that Mrs. Matley's blindness was only pretended. "She is much agitation. playing a dangerous game," thought I; "she 66 thinks, probably, to draw him into a marriage, and if she succeed, what then? There can be no happiness in a connection so unequal."

Ellen, dear Ellen," I said earnestly, "is it even now too late to warn you? Do you indeed love this stranger?"

The color rose to her very brow, and her eyes

do. This man cannot marry you. Beautiful and highly gifted as you are, yet there is a barrier between you which his proud relations would never allow him to overstep. He is, as you know, the last living representative of an old family, and his grandfather is most anxious to see him suitably married. Believe me, my dear Ellen, there is danger about you."

I had taken a green path across the forest, skirt-filled with tears. ing the edge of the park, and leading to a slight “I am answered, Ellen; yet beware what you wooden bridge thrown across another part of the river I have already mentioned. This bridge was half-hidden by a group of alder trees, under whose shadow rose many a tall foxglove, its purple bells musical with bees. I was fond of the place, for I love the sound of flowing waters, and here they have a peculiarly sweet murmur; the bed of the stream being uneven and pebbly. On this day as I drew near, I saw Mr. Courtland and my friend Ellen coming towards me across the bridge. She blushed when she saw me; and, drawing her hand away from her companion, hurried towards

me.

"I am glad I have met you, Ellen," I said, "for I am going away to-morrow, and I was anxious to see you before my departure."

"Going away!" she repeated, in a tone of real regret. "You will not be absent long?"

"Probably several weeks," I replied; "but you have not introduced me to your companion, Ellen."

"Indeed, indeed," she replied, eagerly, "you do not know him. He is good and noble. I have no fears. More I must not say, but indeed you wrong him."

"I hope so, Ellen; but I will keep you no longer. God bless you! My warning was well meant; and I shall think of you often, and anxiously."

We parted; and when after a few minutes I looked back, I saw that Mr. Courtland had rejoined Ellen, and I doubted not that all my wise cautions were already forgotten.

taking her to some place where both would have not yet mentioned the church, which has be alike unknown, and where, under another little pretension to architectural beauty, being, in name, we might live unquestioned and unmolested."

her shattered mind seemed ever to dwell on pleas- | tall that Charlie was often hidden from our sight ant subjects, and her countenance, with its calm, as he wandered among its beautiful leaves to reach meaningless smile, seemed to me far less repulsive some distant foxglove, was scarcely stirred by the than it had been before her reason was cloud- warm noontide breeze. Two noble stags, that had been drinking at the pond, dashed away across the heather as we drew near; but several forest ponies, in a state of drowsy enjoyment, remained standing or lying in the shade close to us, unstartled even by Charlie's merry laughter.

ed.

Ellen came from her distant home to stay at Holly Cottage during her mother's illness, and remained there some weeks after the old woman's health was reestablished, in the vain hope of seeing her memory and intelligence also restored. Her child was with her, and Mr. Courtland constantly came to see that all was well with them both. The boy, now about two years old, was, indeed, a noble creature; dark hair curled about his fair and open brow, his eyes were large and blue like his mother's, and there was something of his father's proud and beautiful smile about his rosy lips; and never did a child possess richer wealth of love than was poured on that lovely boy from Ellen's full and happy heart. Her eye followed his every motion; his imperfect attempts at speech were full of meaning and of music to her ear, and when he lisped to her some of the terms of endearment she so liberally bestowed on him, how would she wind her fond arms about him, and almost smother him with kisses! I love to dwell on these pleasant recollections; to linger on the image that is present to my memory now, of that young mother and her happy child. I see them still, the boy's round cheek resting on his mother's shoulder; his eyes, full of laughter, glancing at me with pretended shyness, whose real meaning I well knew was to challenge me to play with him. The old woman sat in her large arm-chair, watching with her quiet, unvarying smile, and Mr. Courtland was often there, not the least gay or happy of the group.

Now that house is desolate, and those who dwelt within its walls have passed away like shadows. Age is creeping over me, and these events of which I write seem rather visions than realities. I feel half disposed to leave the rest of my tale untold, and yet my grief for them, beloved as they were, is but selfish now. I will finish the task I set myself.

Ellen threw aside her bonnet, and we both established ourselves comfortably, to enjoy the beauty of our cool, green resting-place. Presently Charlie stole quietly behind his mother, and, standing on tiptoe, each little hand grasping as many flowers as it could contain, threw the bright shower over her. How he shouted in gay triumph! how he clapped his hands, and danced, and sang aloud, till the woods rang with his clear, gay voice! Sweet in my memory is that "pioggia di fior," sweet even as that which fell of old on her who sat

"Umile in tanta gloria

Coverta dell' amoroso membo,"

beside the fountain of Vaucluse; and scarcely less fair than Laura seemed to her lover's eyes, did my lovely Ellen then appear to mine. Who could have thought it was her last day of happiness? She was even more than usually confidential in her conversation with me on this occasion. She read some passages from a letter she had that morning received from Mr., or rather from Lord Courtland; for the old lord was dead, and the young husband was hurrying home to avow his marriage publicly.

"Now," said Ellen, as she closed the letter, "there will be nothing to cloud my perfect joy. My child will fill his proper place in his father's house," and she pressed her darling to her heart, and told him his father was coming back to them, then kissed him with increased tenderness on hearing the cry of joy with which he received the news.

We returned home slowly, for we were all fatigued; but before I left the cottage Charlie was fast asleep, his rosy cheek pillowed on his arm, and a smile parting his sweet lips. Silently Ellen bent over him; doubtless many a bright hope rose within her as she watched that peaceful sleeper; and when she turned away she murmured

"God bless you, my child!" in a tone of fondness even deeper than usual.

It rained incessantly the three following days. On the fourth morning I had scarcely_breakfasted when a stranger was announced, and I beheld, to my surprise and alarm, the gentleman who had been present at Ellen's marriage, and whom I had seen at the christening of little Charlie. I felt sure some misfortune had happened.

"You have bad news for me," I said, as he sat down beside me. "God forbid anything should have happened to Lord Courtland!"

Nearly a year after Ellen had again left Holly Cottage, I heard that she was about to return thither to remain during the absence of her husband, who was called to Naples to attend the deathbed of his grandfather. By her desire, I caused preparations for her reception to be made by the woman who had charge of Mrs. Matley. There was a tinge of sadness in Ellen's manner when she came, arising from her having but recently parted with her husband, for whom she still entertained what some would call a romantic degree of attachment. Her boy, however, was gayer than ever. He accompanied his mother and myself in our frequent rambles, bounding on before us with the grace and activity of a deer. One day when we had wandered far from home, (it was our last walk, though we little thought so then,) we sat "I am, indeed, the bearer of bad news!" he redown to rest on a prostrate oak, Charlie, mean-plied, in an agitated voice;" and I grieve to say that while, moving about us and filling his pinafore with flowers. I have never visited the spot since, yet I remember it perfectly. It was near a large pond, about whose edge grew delicate water-plants covered with white blossoms. Behind us was a thick screen of wood; before us, beyond the opposite bank of the pond, were scattered trees, affording glimpses of distant blue hills. Sloping rays of sunshine fell here and there through the graceful foliage of the tall beeches, stealing down to their massive trunks till the mass that clung about them gleamed like living emeralds. The fern, so

it relates to him." I had not courage to speak, and he presently continued, "I have come to you, madam, as the friend of poor Lady Courtland. It is necessary that she should, for the sake of her son, be immediately informed of the sad event which has occurred; besides, the dreadful story will be in the public papers to-morrow!"

"But tell me," I said, after a pause, " tell me what has happened."

I

"The worst!" he replied.

"You do not mean that Lord Courtland is dead!” exclaimed.

"It is too true!" he answered, sadly. "Poor Courtland! he was hurrying homewards from Naples, when, between that city and Rome, he was attacked by banditti, and shot dead on the spot. A friend, who was awaiting him at Rome, has caused his body to be brought to England for burial, and it will arrive here in a few days."

It were easier to imagine than to describe the feelings with which I set forth to seek my poor friend, and break to her the dreadful news that had just been communicated to me. On my way, I could not but think of her as I had seen her last; and when I turned my thoughts again to the fearful tale of which I was the bearer, the contrast made my heart bleed. When I reached the cottage, I found only Mrs. Matley in the usual sitting-room. "Where is Ellen ?" I asked.

"Up stairs, with Charlie," said the old woman. "I'm glad you've come, madam, for she 's been crying all day. There's something the matter, but I can't tell what it is; I am not as I used to be, I believe ____? 9

And she went rambling on, but I made my escape, and stole softly up to Ellen's room, half fearing, half hoping that the evil tidings had already reached her; but I soon saw she had yet another cause for grief. Charlie, her bright, lovely boy, lay on his little bed: how unlike himself but four days ago! His eyes looked dark and sunken, his features had fallen away strangely, and poor Ellen sat weeping beside him, holding his feverish hand, and feeling as I could see at once, that there was no room for hope.

I could not speak; I sat down beside the little bed, and Ellen looked up gratefully. The dear child, too, recognized me, and tried to say my name, but the sound died away in a hoarse whisper.

"He is very ill," said Ellen, with almost unnatural calmness; "the doctor has just gone, he said he could do no more." She stooped to moisten the child's lips; and when he smiled and tried to thank her, she wrung her hands in bitter anguish. "Oh, my God!" she cried, throwing herself on her knees, "help me, help me! And his father, his fond father! comfort him, or his heart

will break!"

that fond embrace, pillowed on that loving bosom, the child of many hopes breathed his last.

Then, indeed, was the silence of the chamber of death broken by cries of agony. I dare not dwell upon a scene like that. Poor Ellen refused to allow the child to be taken from her arms, and for many hours the passion of her grief was not stayed. When at length her mind sank, from exhaustion, into a kind of stupor, I deemed the time was come for me to make known to her the full extent of her bereavement. There, beside that bed where the little child lay in the placid yet fearful beauty of death, I told my sorrowful tale. Ellen listened quietly, and I doubted whether she understood me, till she said, "Both gone! both so dear-so very dear! Tell me all, for I can suffer no more than I suffer now."

And I told her all; told her that she who had lately been so rich in love and happiness, was now almost alone in the world; that none remained to her save her poor old helpless mother. When morning dawned we were still there, watching beside the dead. How lovely he was even then! All expression of pain had passed away; his hair, loosed from its close curls by the damps of death, fell over the pillow; and, in truth, "his face was as the face of an angel."

I must pass over hastily the few days that elapsed before the funeral. Ellen desired her darling might not be buried within the church, but laid in the churchyard, where, when her hour came, she might be laid beside him. I pass over in silence the burst of grief that overpowered her when the little coffin was conveyed from her sight. Lord Courtland's friend, who had remained on the spot, superintended every arrangement, and left me free to devote all my time to Ellen.

In the evening of the day her child was buried, it seemed suddenly to strike her that I had not mentioned her husband's place of interment, and that possibly his remains were to be brought to the tomb of his ancestors, and I thought it best to tell her the whole truth when she questioned me on the subject. She remained for some time plunged in thought, but made no reply, nor did she again allude to the information I had given her.

CHAPTER IV.

Affairs at home requiring my presence, I was obliged reluctantly to leave Holly Cottage for a few days. This, however, gave me an opportunity of communicating with Lord Courtland's friend, Mr. Cayley, from whom I heard that her husband's will left everything that he had to leave to Ellen. When I afterwards told her this she shook her head with sad meaning, and said wealth had lost all value in her eyes now; but every little trifle that his hand had touched she received and hoarded with melancholy pleasure.

I could not bear it; I left the room for a few minutes, and when I returned, Ellen had resumed her place beside the little sufferer. I took my seat again opposite to her. It was a lovely summer's day, and through the open window a light breeze stole in, laden with the scent of flowers from the little garden below. Within the room all was still, save the painful breathing of the child and an occasional and almost convulsive sigh from his mother. I heard the boughs waving in the forest, the singing of the birds, even the trickling of the little stream in the garden. At last a bird came close to the window and began singing a loud, The vessel conveying Lord Courtland's remains clear song. Charlie turned his languid eyes, and a was, by some accident, delayed long beyond the gleam of pleasure passed over his face. I saw time at which its coming was expected: but at Ellen shudder, but her eyes were dry, and they length I received a note from Mr. Cayley announcnever wandered from the dying child. Now and ing its arrival. "I am desired," he wrote, "to then she bathed his forehead and wet his lips, and I have everything ready for the burial to-night. sought not to help her, for I felt it was a sort of sacred The funeral procession is to cross Courtland Park right with which none should interfere. Almost to on its way to the church. Would it not be possithe last the child received her attentions with a look ble to remove the poor widow to your own house of gratitude. Two hours passed, and then I saw in the course of the day without her suspecting that death was coming. Charlie lay for some time our reasons for wishing her to go? Anything motionless, then suddenly throwing his arms round seems to me preferable to her being exposed to the his mother, he cried "Mamma! mamma!" In bare possibility of seeing such a sight.'