CHAPTER II.

BRIEF as the space of our acquaintance had been, neither she nor they were creatures to be forgotten, and I sorrowed deeply on leaving them, when the time arrived for my departure. Yet I consoled myself by the idea, that, as the hospitable family whom I had been visiting pressed me warmly to return again, I should certainly do so, and should then find this attractive acquaintance ripen into intimacy. But the trite old saying, "Man proposes and God disposes," which meets with new exemplification every day, was not belied in this instance.

Events, at that time totally unexpected, occurred to alter all my plans and prospects soon after my return home, and it was only last year, that, having shortly before returned from a lengthened residence abroad, I once more found myself at —— Amid all the

changes which I beheld on my return to England-changes which, in the space of a few years, have transformed the whole outward aspect of the country, and perhaps have not done much less to alter its moral features, this ancient and somewhat secluded place had preserved more of its former character than any I had as yet revisited.

It is true that a railroad had made its way thither, and that in consequence the fine old Cathedral had become a Lion for tourists during the summer months; but upon the whole, beyond the inevitable alteration in habits and modes of thinking, consequent upon the rising up of a new generation amongst its inhabitants, I found matters

proceeding in a manner wonderfully resembling that of eighteen years ago; and it gave me a sensation of peace and repose to turn from the feverish turmoil of the accelerated speed at which everybody I had as yet met with, appeared to be hurrying through life, to the still, untroubled quiescence of the Cathedral Close, and the holy and venerable associations entwined with the unaltered routine of the Daily Service.

One of my earliest cares was to seek out my pleasant companion and friend of former days, whom I found still unmarried, and no longer young, but kind and agreeable as ever, presiding as mistress of her father's house, and guardian of several younger sisters. From her I anxiously sought for accounts of those in whom I had felt so warm an interest during my first visit and learned what I could not call sad tidings, so far as they were concerned, and yet how bitterly did I weep over them!

to

The long-severed were united at last!parents and children, brothers and sisters, and those even more tenderly attached, the husband and wife, whose brief day of wedded love had been followed by so dark a night of sorrow—all were now restored to each other, their days of mourning were ended, and the last of the Stanleys had entered into rest. And who was the last? On which of those gentle beings had that dread doom been laid ?

". . . . To be

The last leaf which by Heaven's decree,
Must hang upon a blasted tree?"

It was on Marion; on that clinging, loving, trusting heart. She, in the inscrutable decree of Providence, willing, doubtless, to perfect her faith through the sore tribulation of losing her last earthly prop and stay, was for five years left alone. When I heard this, she had been upwards of a twelvemonth in her grave, and the death

of her sister had preceded hers by that length of time. Jane's last illness was a brief one-an attack of fever, which at the end of ten days terminated fatally. Her last hours, during which her mind was perfectly collected, and her bodily suffering at an end, were a meet close for such a life, hallowed by the faith, the hope, which on the threshold of eternity, realized the unseen things of heaven, and rendered her deathbed very deed the gate of life.

in

At her own request, Marion and she were for a long while left alone together the day before she died. The particulars of that last solemn interview none ever heard; but its hallowing influence remained to calm the agony of her for whom, from that time forth, there were to be no more hours of confidence, no more unrestrained outpourings of the heart, who had no one left on earth with whom to recall the short-lived joys and long sorrows of the past.