piness-throwing a blight and a suspicion on all around. Tell her, dear Annie, she and her child shall never want; but do not let her seek me!" "I do not wonder at this now, but happier times will come, dear Helen!" and she threw her arms round her neck, and kissed her pale cheek. "I will try to be as kind to her as you could be; but indeed! indeed you must not think all de ceivers." Helen rendered back the caress, but shook her head. Annie returned from her mission as soon as might be, charged with Lucy's thanks, and grateful acceptance of the offers made her, and Helen's horse having come back as ordered, she returned to Hurlestone with neither a less painful head, or a lighter heart. Her aunt met her in the hall. "Why! you look like a ghost, child! What can be the matter? I am sure you are going to have a relapse and are not at all, fit for this journey to Florence." The old lady wished to remain with her, and to keep her near her cousin. "I believe you are right, aunt; the journey to Florence must be given up, and I will write by to day's post. By keeping quiet for a day or two, I may avoid a relapse." She spoke hurriedly, and passed on instantly to her dressing room. "Well, De Roos! Is the heiress more lovely, and less capricious?" inquired Mr. Tindal, who, with two or three other gentlemen, met him on his return from Hurlestone: "Come, tell us the truth, and put us out of our misery at once! You look as if you were really happy, but thought you ought to appear sentimental and melancholy. Let the sun burst through the fog! Is the day fixed ?" "On the contrary, she has given up her intended visit to Florence entirely" replied De Roos, choosing to misunderstand the question. "She has!" exclaimed two or three voices. "Then I have won my bet", said one. "I was sure, De Roos would knock up that journey." "You attribute too much influence to me, gentlemen; her aunt says she is not strong enough to undertake the journey." "That means not strong enough to resist your persuasions. Well! you will be a happy man, if no rival shoot you through the head? When is it to be? with all decent speed, eh?” "Really, gentlemen, you strangely misunderstand my words," replied De Roos, with looks that confirmed the suspicion he deprecated in words. A loud laugh was the comment, and showed the credit given to his assertions. "Then there is one heiress out of our reach, so I suppose we must try for the other, though somewhat inferior." "Whom do you mean?" "Why, Miss Carleton to be sure! A great, great uncle, or thousandth cousin, or some such thing, has died, and left eighty thousand pounds to go to Miss Carleton and her brother, or the survivor; and 'my son John' was thrown by his horse Conqueror last week; and they say cannot live;' so the young lady will be worth paying attention to. I hear Mrs. Carleton's neck is a more moderate length than usual, as she does not quite know whether to look up for the fortune, or down for the fall; but I suppose it will soon be longer than ever, as she will expect to be mamma-in-law to a Viscount at least. I think I shall try my luck, though only a commoner and remember, De Roos, should the St. Maur prove capricious at last, you are not to poach on my manor; or I should stand no chance." A laugh was the only answer. MRS. GOWER TO MISS ST. MAUR. MY DEAR HELEN, Florence. I would not willingly accuse you of caprice or coquetry, but your conduct is to me inexplicable; for, besides the sudden and unaccountable change in your purpose, there is a coldness and restraint throughout your letter I neither approve or understand. It should seem as if, from the most loving and confiding of beings, a spell had come over you, making you the most cold and mistrustful. You say illness, and something you cannot explain, require you to give up your visit to Florence;' and then you implore me to let the past be forgotten, and never to permit the future to bear reference to it. This may be very sublime; but to me is very annoying, and very incomprehensible. Further, you write of your journey, as if it had no connexion with another person; and, if no such person existed. Fortunately, as he never knew of your coming, he suffers enough without that. He at least is no changeling. You may think me unkind, but the truth is I am more fretted at your letter than I deem it prudent to say: the writer bears but little resemblance to my early friend. The whole world has it, that Mr. De Roos had no small share in changing your mind, and that he will hereafter have an equal share in changing your name. I hope this is not true; but appearances warrant the conclusion. Beware how you marry a man petted by all the world! he will either turn out a coxcomb, a tyrant, or a hypocrite. 'By gazing on himself grown blind, No other can he see.' Mrs. De Roos need send me no cake, for I will neither taste it myself, nor let the children touch it. I am too angry to write more; but if you wish us to be to each other as of old, let me hear instantly; be candid, and forgive my petu lance. In love, despite your change, HARRIET GOWER. You If P. S.-I have read your letter over again, and fancy I can discern a depth of anguish in its very coldness. Forgive me, Helen. Breathe but a hint, and I will come to you. once said I could sooth; let me do so again, if in sorrow. De Roos have thrown his spells around you, a friend may break them. Should you wish it, do not scruple. Gower will attend me over, and Elliott look after the children in my absence. I am quite jealous, the little animals do so dote on him. Shall I come? CHAPTER XI. "And fronted Marmion."-SCOTT. "The fellow's insolence is superb."-SALATHIEL My own lov'd Zayda! do we meet once more ?" It was not thus in other days we met : Hath time, hath absence taught thee to forget? Oh, speak once more !-those rising doubts dispel; One smile of tenderness, and all is well. Not thus we met in other times !-oh, no !"' HEMANS. SUMMER and autumn had both passed, and winter ruled. It was the middle of January, and one of those clear bright frosty days, of which sometimes, as an especial favour, one has six in the season. The ground was hard, and resounded beneath the foot as if trodden by one of power and might, and the air was clear and bracing. I know not if others feel as I do: not the happy, I have little in common with them, and their very happiness partly consists in the absence of presage or comparison. The moment happiness asks why it is happiness, that moment it is falling into the "sere and yellow leaf." But I wonder if those in sadness and in sorrow feel as I do. Spring brings to mind the gay bright hopes of youth; but then experience tells how those bright hopes have faded-and the sickened heart turns away with disgust, for it knows that it can feel such hopes no more; or if it could, what are they but lovely flowers, scarcely admired ere trodden under foot? Yes, Spring certainly is a gay deceiver. "If the blue sky were always blue, then the heart might yield itself to its devotion with all the abandonment of a first love: but such things are not. Well! it is all best as it is. Were this earth a paradise, who would sigh for heaven? And who does not love it and all its glittering things more than they should, despite its fathomless mines of wo. Then there is Summer. And what is it but a beautiful mockery, taunting the wretched? The flight of the painted butterfly, and the song of the wild birds, and the perfume and the beauty of the flowers, are but as bitter scorns and gibes to the sorrowful. And the calm placid evening, with its crimson glories and its gentle haze and its deepening shadows: oh, it is then that memory riots in its power, and the heart writhes in agony! You will say an humble and a pious spirit should delight in its beauties, feel a gush of love and gratitude, and read in its splendours the promise of a brighter world. And so it should. Well! let us try next summer, should life be spared. And now comes Autumn; for, having begun the seasons I suppose I must go on, or I shall be considered partial. I know nine-tenths of the world would allow me to abuse this season with impunity. It is so melancholy to look at the fading trees and the drooping flowers, and to hear the equinoctial gales whistle through the woods, sweeping the forest bare; and then to hear those very leaves, whose whirling flight we have watched, crunch and crackle under our feet; and the thought of the dreary winter that is coming next. Certainly autumn is very melancholy. It is melancholy, and that is why I like it. It sympathises instead of mocking. To a light grief it is saddening; to a deep one, soothing as the heart in its anguish revolts at the rebuke of the flippant or stern, but bends to the tear and the tenderness of love. I do not dispute its melancholy, although I joy in its beauty. It has the loveliness of some fair being sinking into the tomb. As the light bright tints of spring change into deeper, darker hues, wither, and die, so do the hopes of youth deepen and darken, wither and fade, in our after years; each falling leaf is a sorrow; and the crunching sound be neath our tread is as the last sigh of departed hopes. Then the immediate prospect is cold and dreary; and our regret for the past is increased by our anticipation of the future. Spring is the emblem of deceit; autumn of truth, thence its melancholy. But then its gorgeous colours and splendid scenery are to the eye of the Christian, as the departing glories of the |