CHAPTER XII.

So long as Guyon with her communed
Unto the ground she cast her modest eye,
And ever and anone with rosie red

The bashfull blood her snowy cheeks did die, And her became as polish'd ivorie

Which cunning craftsman's hand hath overlaid
With fair vermillion or pure lastery.

Faerie Queen.

WHILST the miller was making his important communication to Herbert, Gwenthlean and Clare were laughing and talking merrily. The former was engaged in an elaborate piece of embroidery, intended as a wedding present for her sister, and any one who had seen her when she was employed

in preparations for her own marriage, would scarcely have believed in her identity. Her needle passed so rapidly to and fro, that the flowers seemed to grow under her fingers; whilst the beautiful smile of days gone by, once more animated her features. Clare had also a make-believe work-basket, full of all kinds of work, near her; but much as she had tried to persuade herself into a liking for needle-work, during her life of retirement, she had not succeeded. She was seated at her writingdesk, on which lay a jewell box, just received from the Countess of Hastings, and several unanswered letters. She took up

a splendid circlet of pearls,

intended for the head, and showed it to Gwenthlean.

"It is very beautiful," she said, "but it would suit you so much better than me :" and rising, she placed it on her sister's head. "Oh! how well you look! I wish you were going to wear it instead of me. You deserve so much more than I do, and yet I am the happy and favored one.”

"Oh! do not say that:" said Gwenthlean. "We are all happy again now, and rejoice with you. Besides I shall be so glad to visit you at Hastings Abbey, and to make myself useful and agreeable as your spinster sister. Good-natured old maid sisters, are always welcome guests."

"Do not talk of spinster-sisters, dearest," exclaimed Clare, as she gazed with fond admiration on Gwenthlean; "but just sing me this song which I found in Tasso. Nay, I will have it and no hour can be so fitting for it as this. You see the moon is just rising, whilst the sun is going to bed, so you must lay aside your work, and let me hear how these pretty words suit the air for which they are written."

Clare gave Gwenthlean a copy of verses which were addressed to her, and set to the music of an old Welsh air. They had been written by Herbert before he went abroad.

Gwenthlean blushed, and declared she could not sing them.

"Only one verse," entreated Clare. "The words are so applicable to you, and I promise not to ask who wrote them."

Gwenthlean sighed, but taking the paper, sang, in a low voice, the following song, without an accompaniment.

WELSH AIR.

66 MEUTRA GWEN."

Come Gwenthlean.

The bright stars glitter far and wide,
The moon lights up the sea;
Then come, and down the flowing tide,
Gwenthlean, row with me.

How calm the night-how still the wave

How lightly falls the oar;

No echo comes from rock or cave,

No sound from hill or shore.

The sea-gull's wild and plaintive cry
Is hushed in silence deep;

The breezes that are lingering nigh,
Have sunk awhile to sleep.

The rocks are bathed in mellow light,
The mountains gleam afar ;

No cloud obscures the moon to-night,
No shadow dims a star.

And thou art silent, too, my love,

Or whisperest quietly:

As if afraid thy voice might move
The anger of the sea.

But thy soft eyes, so gently kind,
Are like yon glowing sphere,
And speak as surely to the mind,
As language to the ear.

Beneath their cloudless light I see
A heaven of peace and love,
Where all is truth and purity,
As in yon heaven above.

When Gwenthlean came to the end of