over the azure heaven-the glimpses of sunshine, between the frequent storm.

Sophia had loved-she had loved the cold, haughty Ralph de Vere-she had given to him her virgin heart.

Was she the more unhappy for this, do you think? -I say not.

I hold, that the divine influence-the holy spirit which wraps and unites the whole creation-never is quite ineffectual to soften, harmonise, and elevate the most unpropitious condition. That she loved Mr. de Vere, was the sole redeeming circumstance, after all, in her lot. It is true, it gave a poignancy to his indifference, which rendered it, at times, too bitter; but it ennobled the submission she would have been forced, under any circumstances, to yield. The implicit obedience which he expected was rendered easy, and more natural, as it were, by those feelings which make woman subject to man-subduing her heart to that fond devotion, which elevates the subservience, too often exacted, into the free offering of a generous heart. We sympathise in the feelings of the "Notte-browne Mayde:" we do not look upon them as the mean expression of a slavish temper; but as the generous liberality which flings all away, for the sake of the idol of its fervent

affection.

This tenderness on her part, had not been entirely without its effect upon him. It is true, as I said, he treated her with a sort of habitual indifference; as a cold, and proud nature is apt, without thinking upon it, to treat one regarded in every way as its inferior; but he

rested upon her affection; and though he never condescended to express the necessity in words, seemed more easy when she was by his side, and honoured her too, by some slight portion of his confidence: for, to some one, human nature must pour out its feelings-and the haughty reserve, which separated him from the rest of mankind, would seek relief at times in the society of one patient listener, who dared not be weary, and who, sometimes, sympathised.

But Mrs. de Vere was not without her own enjoyments in this dreary lot: she had one little daughter. This daughter ought to have been a son, to be sure. Bitter had been the disappointment expressed at her birth; and the infant had long been treated by the father with almost sullen indifference: but when year followed year, and no hope of any other child appeared, he began to look at her with some little interest. As no son was to be had, to make an eldest son of his daughter-that common refuge of disappointed family pride-began to offer some slight compensation to his feelings. Had she been the eldest of a dozen sisters, to this sentiment they would all have been sacrificed without compunction. But, as it happened, no sacrifice of this sort was demanded here, and the mother's tenderness and fond idolatry were in harmony with the father's ambitious sentiments.

The result was, that between the nervous anxieties of the one, and the lofty views of the other, the little girl was brought up in the most singular and secluded

manner.

The mother could hardly endure her to be one mo

ment out of her sight; the father thought scarcely any associations that the near neighbourhood could furnish, sufficiently distinguished for her. She received, therefore, few impressions from society of any kind. Nature—the workings of that character originally stamped upon the individual soul-and her domestic affections alone, united to form Clarice.

The laws by which that original stamp is governed, escape all calculation. Hereditary temperament seems to be one of them; and yet how often does the child start forward, so blended of qualities inherited from various souches of the families of father, mother, grandfather, &c. &c., as to defy all attempts at tracing whence its features were derived: springing forward a new, original, delightful being-fresh, as it were, in creation, from the Great Master's hand.

Born of the silent, drooping mother—of the cold, reserved father-whence did she draw that warm, imaginative, genial being; that face instinct with spirit, life, and joy; that ardent, hopeful, active nature? Ah, Clarice! wert thou then, as poets have fabled, a bright one descended from the pure and glorious heavens; the beams still glistening in thine infant eye, and lingering round thy angel form and feature?

You can scarcely conceive a prettier sight, than when Mr. de Vere gave one of his grand, stately, formal dinner parties. Country dinners are proverbially dull things now, but they were then the most excessively stiff, stately affairs you can imagine. All the company in full dress, by the staring daylight of four o'clock at latest, crossed from their country seats-ten to twelve

miles, perhaps, distant-in their coaches and four, and ranged themselves in a formal circle round the grand, cold saloon; which, locked up on ordinary days in its papers and coverings, was opened and visited solely upon such occasions. Not a book, not even a newspaper lay upon the tables; not the slightest relief to the eye or the imagination; the company sat, held up their high heads, and talked. I was often there with my father; and I was going to say that nothing could be prettier than the apparition, upon such occasions, of the fair gentle mother and the little Clarice.

Mrs. de Vere used to be dressed in much simplicity; her dress was a type of her pure and gentle nature; soft and delicate, and tucked and done about with lace; so that the outline was undefined and hazy, as it were, like that of a misty, melting cloud: then her face was so pale, with her soft brown hair just slightly powdered -her voice so low, soft, and gentle.

The little Clarice held by her hand-she always appeared in the drawing-room with her mother. The little girl dressed in her beautiful India muslin and lace frocks, with a very broad sash of blue or clouded riband, tied behind; or at times of painted tiffany and spangles; her brown hair clustering round her checks, and falling in ringlets round her pretty shoulders; her complexion very fair, of that delicate porcelain transparency which is so rare and so inexpressibly lovely; her little features cut in the finest lines-beautiful now, and promising more beauty-and her blue eyes usually cast down with a pretty childish shyness; but if raised to your face, by a sudden glance of curiosity or amuse

ment, they had a smiling brightness, that was excessively delightful. Her mouth, too, how harmonious! how sweet and peaceful, yet how feeling, and how expressive!

Quiet as the lovely little being was; you felt that she could be airy, gay, and volatile as a bird, when the restraint of "the company" was away.

Many a young lady crossed the room to kneel down by her, as she stood at her mother's knee, and engage her in childish prattle. How cheerful and ingenuous was her demeanour! How sweet and confiding her infant innocence! She seemed to know neither distrust nor fear; the charming shyness of young unspoiled nature, alone threw a pretty check over her spirits. She answered gaily, but in a little low whispering tone, as if she feared to make a noise-to disturb those grand, grown-up people-which a child ought not to do. But there was no reserve in her little heart; she always had some pretty, clever thing or other, to

say.

The mother's eye spoke volumes as she stole a look down upon her, on these occasions; and even the father, as he stood with his back to the mantel-piece, discoursing upon the subjects of the day-might be caught glancing, now and then, at the little charmer; as her childish, merry, but suppressed laughter, rang softly through the apartment.

I was then a great big boy-my father was a gentleman, and I was tolerated as the son of one-but I was, in fact, a heavy, unformed, lubberly boy. I used to feel so to myself; as if I was a huge unlicked bear's