of the strong man, bereaved, by his own hand, alike of brother and betrothed wife; and as we once again gaze on the sorrowful inscription above the inner door, our own eyes fill as we think of him, whose bitter remembrances here caused "tears to be his meat day and night." Yet may it not have been that other words of Holy Writ were also adopted by him, and that while never ceasing to lament his own headlong and revengeful fury, he learnt at last to say of One who "had done no violence," "He was bruised for my iniquities, the chastisement of my peace was upon Him, and with His stripes I am healed"?

The walks through the ornamented pleasure grounds reach, we are informed, two or three miles beyond the Hermitage, and are as beautiful on this side the river as on the other. Our rambles, however, do not extend beyond a mill-dam in the stream, some three quarters of a mile above the Hermitage. Here we take our seat on one of the rustic benches, so liberally provided for the accommodation of the weary or the meditative, and while the young folks run down to the water's edge, and try how far they can get across the shallows, by aid of the large stones strewed here and there, we think again of Sir Bertram and his sorrows, till our attention is drawn to the happy voices below us, half lost in the rush of the stream; and then lifting our eyes to the blue expanse of heaven, we think of the fairer scenes above, where the "new song" of the redeemed is "as the voice of many waters.' It is with the earnest wish that the sorrowful hermit of Warkworth may long ago have joined that happy band, that we, at length, retrace our steps, re-embark our whole party, and with many a lingering glance behind, finally bid adieu to the fair banks of the Coquet, with its lowly Hermitage and lofty baronial castle.

LAURA.

HYMNE.

PAR FELIX NEFF.

Tour mon cœur s'enflamme

Lorsque j'entrevois,

Des yeux de mon âme,

Le grand Roi des rois
Régner en justice,

En paix, en douceur,
Et de ses délices

Remplir tous les cœurs.

L'Eternel lui-même

Paîtra ses troupeaux,
La tendresse extrême

Sera leur repos;

Sa face adorable

Les éclairera,
Son regard aimable

Les enflammera.

L'Enfant adorable

Nous conduira tous,

Tout cri lamentable

Sera loin de nous;

Aux célestes rives

L'Agneau nous paîtra,

Le fleuve d'eau vive

Nous abreuvera.

Seigneur! quand sera-ce,
Que ces tems heureux,

Abondant en grâce,

Combleront nos vœux?

Ton épouse crie:

Viens, Prince de paix !

Viens, Prince de vie!

Régner à jamais.

[We will insert the best translation into English verse.-ED.]

MY THREE VISITS.

IN FOUR CHAPTERS.-CHAPTER IV.

SUCH was the effect that experience of the world, I had so longed to enter, had wrought in Agnes Gordon. Too proud to yield to it, not lofty enough to rise above it, she affected an utter indifference to its opinions, yet showed in her minutest actions a desire to maintain a character invulnerable to the shafts of its ridicule. Her intellect was sedulously cultivated, while her heart-feelings were repressed; the warm tides of enthusiasm were sent back to their source, and she remained cold and statue-like, sternly negative, neither inviting nor repelling affection; desiring to be thought completely independent, yet continually sacrificing her own wishes, in order to do something extraordinary, that it might be observed: "Miss Gordon will act as she pleases, without regard to the remarks of her acquaintances.'

It must have cost her much at first to freeze herself into the iceberg that she seemed to be, but now her cynical tone was become natural to her; she prided herself on it, and I verily believe, looked on amiability as a weakness, a pardonable one, it is true, but still rather to be conquered than encouraged.

She had much authority, though but little influence over those about her; her will was never disputed, there was not an instant's hesitation in obeying her orders; indeed, her short, decisive manner of giving even the most trifling directions, scarcely admitted of a demur; yet, all-pervading as her spirit was in that formal household, it was her constant supervision alone that ensured attention to her commands. She ruled

by fear, not by love; for, while those who understood her, respected the inflexible uprightness with which she invariably judged herself by the standard whereby she tried others, her domestics complained of the hard justice that made her reprove any fault with unmitigated severity, and reward unusual diligence with only a quiet word of commendation. The tenth verse of St. Luke xvii. seemed to be strongly impressed on her memory. As she endeavoured to do her own duty strictly, and took no merit for the performance of it, so she gave little praise to those who also tried to do the same, but simply approved of their conscientiousness.

Before leaving Clinford Court, I had written to tell my mother of this alteration in the arrangement that she had made for disposing of me while she remained from home;

and she wrote immediately to thank Miss Gordon for her kindness, at the same time sending me word that Mrs. Aylmer had returned with the intention of inviting me to pass some time with her, so soon as she should be settled at Ferndale; and saying that, as Eustace was now comparatively strong, it would not be long before they too would begin their homeward journey. This on the whole was welcome news to me, not only because I yearned to see again those loved ones, from whom I had been so long separated, but because, without being ungrateful for her seasonable hospitality, Miss Gordon's want of sympathy was very chilling; she was like the grey light of a wintry morning, clear and cold, and I longed for a gleam of warm bright sunshine.

"You must not go yet," she said, one morning, when my godmother's expected letter having come at last, I told her of its contents. "Mrs. Aylmer names no particular time for your visit-see, she says that you are to consider Ferndale as your home till your mother's return-so fix some day next month for leaving me."

"Mamma will be home before then," I answered.

"That is very uncertain. However, let us compromise the matter; say this day three weeks."

So it ended.

A lovely morning it was when I left Stoneleigh. Spring was merging into summer, but the fresh beauty of the year's early months remained. Across the pure, pale, crystalline blue sky floated soft grey clouds, too thin and vaporous to reflect the sunlight, and casting only momentary shadows, so faint as to be scarcely perceptible, over the grass hill-sides. The leaves, still of a young and tender green, were tremulous in the perfume-laden air; and on either side the road, brooklets, swollen by the rain, gurgled and danced along right merrily.

Little could I see of all this beauty, shut up in Miss Gordon's brougham, as we drove to Belford, a market town rather more than half-way between Stoneleigh and my present destination; especially as the crimson curtain was drawn across one window, to keep out the rays of the sun, which fell intrusively on a book that my companion was reading aloud.

"I do not believe that you have been listening to me," said Miss Gordon, when I asked her to repeat some passage that she was inclined to discuss. I blushed and apologized; Indeed, I attended to what you were reading.'

You tried to do so, but you were dreaming of something else. Never mind, you shall have the volume to peruse at your leisure. The subject is not one to be easily understood,

and the reasoning is too subtle to be closely followed, at such a time as this, unless you are accustomed, as I am, to abstract your thoughts from what is passing around you."

"I am afraid that I have been rather rude, but I really could not concentrate my ideas; however, if you will be so good as to lend me the book, I should like very much to study it."

We went on silently for a little while. "You like this time of the year?" Miss Gordon asked, at length.

"Oh, yes-everything seems to be so full of hope. Hope, you say, is exclusively youth's treasure, so I do not think that any one can feel old in the spring-time."

"They do, who have outlived hope."

"My motto is, Dum spiro, spero.'

"While I breathe, I hope.' It will not hold good. To hope, is to believe in the unreal."

"Have we not one Great Hope that shall never fail us?" Miss Gordon drew up the blind and made no reply. “That is a strange sympathy between ourselves and all things animate and inanimate,” I said, "that makes us so rejoice in Nature's gladness."

"It is the natural effect of a fine day," and Miss Gordon smiled. "You will soon have an opportunity of talking, to your heart's content, about sympathies and such nonsense, to Mrs. Aylmer, who, unless she is strangely altered since our school days, will understand you better than I can-than I will, perhaps, I should say. Look, there is Belford church;" and then followed a topographical lecture on the town, which lasted until we stopped at the door of the principal hotel, in the High-street.

It had been agreed that my godmother was to meet us there, and drive me home in her pony chaise; and, as she had arrived some time previously, we were shown into the room where she was waiting.

When the two old schoolfellows-until that morning I had not heard of their former acquaintance-had exchanged greetings, somewhat constrained on Miss Gordon's part, though Mrs. Aylmer's tone was cordial, the latter addressed me with a genuine kindliness that won its way directly to my heart. Delicate and fragile-looking, with a peculiarly sweet and happy smile, yet with a pensive light in her gentle eyes, seeming as though she felt little eager interest in life, not because she had worn it out, but as though her hopes and joys were now transferred to heaven-she was a woman formed to win affection, not violent but deep. She was an embodiment of the chiefest Christian grace, and might have sat to an artist as a model for a representation of Charity.