again, “perhaps, this is the basis on which all his eccentricity stands; a powerful and independent, very independent mind, in a weak and fragile casket."

"It is plainly to be developed," replied Mrs. Strickland, "that a noble nature is there; mistaking, however, its own impulses, yet blindly following them. Consequently he is made up of doubts, questionings, and wavering faith; and, to escape from this state of restlessness, he seeks and obtains a temporary forgetfulness in the higher realms of sense and imagination; leaving us to watch his flight, for he then makes no part of us, till the cup is exhausted, and there is nothing left, and he returns the wreck of himself! I may say, an example that happiness, which is peace and tranquillity of mind, can be found nowhere but in fixed principles, -on faith, hope, content, and all the steady traffic that he holds at nought."

"Do you think he will ever marry?" asked

Rosalind, and she felt nervous, even in waiting a moment for an answer to this leading question.

"I should as soon think of little Georgy marrying," she replied, with a smile; "for, rely upon it, the child would make the better husband. Châteaubriand, in his return from exile, passed through the town where his wife resided; and forgetting that he had such a thing belonging to him, went many leagues beyond, before he recollected it, and then returned for her. John Bracken might easily do the same thing. I do not like the jumps of these great wits! their free and eloquent speculations, and philosophical opinions, and their diffusive sympathies! But here he is, to answer for himself."

And he had really entered the room quite unawares. There was no sudden raising of the study latch heard; and then the debate in her mind, whether his step was approaching

or receding. It was all new! and in a position as new as everything else, he now stood, for a moment, before Rosalind. But he only looked at the names of some books he had written upon a slip of paper in his hand, and at the place in the book-cases where he thought they stood; and he seemed a moment to debate within his mind, which should first secure his attention, and the books bid fair to carry the day; when Mrs. Strickland repeated,

"We were settling, at the moment you entered, Mr. Bracken, whether you would ever be married."

Nothing could have been more painful to Rosalind, and, at the same time, more àpropos, than the question; and she looked into Mrs. Strickland's face, to see whether it was really the effect of chance, or done with a view to further her inquiries; but there was nothing visible but a perfect unconcern, and in Mr. Bracken's countenance there was, also, no other expression,

VOL. III.

D

save a bright smile of animation, as Rosalind offered him her hand, saying, at the same time, to dispel her gathering confusion, that it was a long time since she had seen him.

"A long time," he said, and with a calmness that soon reassured her, and inspired her with an emulation to steer through her difficulties with, at least, the same tranquillity of appearance, if its reality was denied her. But a change once given, she set about her work, and, in a way peculiarly her own, she continued to question, and to cross question Mr. Bracken, and all so quietly done, that, during the time, he continued to sort his books, examined one, replaced another, then, again, referred to one he had put back on the shelf, drawing, meanwhile, from his own stores of intellect and feeling. It was only in after years, that Rosalind reflected, with a thrill, over the trial of the moment. Harmoniously, yet inconsistently, she drew his replies from

him, wavering and vacillating, perplexed, and almost perplexing. Sometimes he would talk with a softened spirit and calm extension of view; when again, in a moment, the morbid mind would depict its world, like a sterile wilderness, palled with thick vapours, and “dark as the valley of the shadow of death."

Then would Rosalind turn to Mrs. Strickland, and make her take a part in the conversation, for she was still in a fidget, like a cat with a mouse, watching the masons; seeing they did not break her flowers, or make more splashing with their detestable white-washing, than was necessary. And then would Rosalind recover herself, and try to divert her feelings from sympathising too much, and yielding themselves up to a spell, almost too powerful. Yet a sudden caprice on his part, a violent shoot off into some new track, a shifting variety, concurred to make her almost fear, with her friend, that his mind was