There was one of his old lover recollections which would come up now, as if there were a special and unknown significance in it. Once, not long after his first becoming acquainted with Helen, he had chanced, by the merest accident, to hear a little anecdote relating to her infancy, which charmed him in quite a peculiar manner. When she was little more than two years of age she used to have for her playmate a cousin, not much older than herself, of whom she was very fond, and one of whose roguish amusements during a summer they spent together in the same country-house was to lead her out to a small, clear stream which ran near, where, placing her, grave little maiden, at the edge of the water, he would push her, in the most indefatigable manner, farther in, so as to make her wet her feet. By some silly trick of the imagination, this baby-anecdote had not only pleased him beyond measure at the moment, but had painted itself a sweet coloured miniature in his memory. His Helen, a fair-haired little beauty, with mild appealing eyes, suffering herself to be pushed into the water, became thereafter one of his favourite portraits of her. There was this material difference, however, between the reality and the fancy-painting, that the part performed by the roguish cousin in the former was represented as performed by himself in the latter. So completely was this the case, and so favourite an occupation was it with him to contemplate the picture he had drawn of his infant Helen, that it had actually become a sort of hallucination with him that he had been Helen's playmate in childhood, her little beau, her purveyor of apples, her defender against the watch-dog; and the person of the cousin had passed completely out of view, dismissed unceremoniously into mere shade and obscurity. Indeed, so little space had the existence of the cousin taken in his mind, that he had never inquired farther concerning him, and had only chanced on one occasion to learn that a cousin of Helen's, who, he supposed, was the same, had obtained a commission, and gone out with his regiment to India.

In those sad, retrospective moods of the young clergyman, that reso

lute digging in the past to find the root of his present bitterness, the pet anecdote of his infant Helen did not fail to turn up, nor the picture his fancy had painted of it to come again vividly before him. By some perverse freak, however, of the imaginative faculty, always a sycophant in his mind of the growing feeling, the picture would no longer present itself precisely as it used to be. It was larger in size, no longer a miniature, but a canvass picture; and there was an alteration in one of the principal figures. There was still the fair-haired, blue-eyed little beauty at the edge of the brook, but he no longer recognised his own features in the boy-shape that stood by her. Somehow, it seemed as if the longforgotten cousin had come forward out of the dim background and resumed his place; while the other figure, detaching itself from the picture altogether, but still facing it wistfully, seemed to recede from it into the hither-space, dilating and approaching in reverse perspective, till it ended in-himself.

As

There was no reason in all this; nor did it produce any additional pain in the meantime, or lead to any crisis of feeling. The understanding remained busy, restless, and without clue as before; only a vague, shadowy sense of something found out, hung before the imagination. with a fleet at sea, so with his mind; certain faculties seemed to have shot forward in the chase far beyond the horizon of the rest; and these, the object of pursuit having been des cried, were now waiting till the whole should come up that the shock of action might commence. Towards his wife, accordingly, notwithstanding the distraction within, his demeanour was still the same, tender, silently reproachful, sad. Still the same walks, the same conversations, the same fondness gushing through restraint. The only perceptible effect produced on his behaviour as yet, by what was passing in his mind, was a certain hawk-like sharpness, foreign to his nature, with which he began to watch her movements. Every flitting expression of countenance, every flush of the cheek, every word spoken, was now noted and put to the question; and, if she but left the room for a moment, he

would feel himself rise involuntarily to follow her.

It was not long before this inquisitive eagerness fastened upon a special incident. They were walking, as wont, in the park beyond the garden, one evening, when the unusual sound of a horn, blown probably by some gamekeeper making his round in the woods, was heard at a distance. The blast was clear and prolonged, and the young man stopped and was listening for its repetition, when he felt his companion's arm tremble violently, and, turning round on the instant, he perceived that her face had assumed that keen, tremulous, alarmed look, which, as the one marked variation from her habitual expression of languid repose, always so strangely affected him. His impulse was to support her, to soothe her; but ere he could obey it, some thought stung him, and with a start, and a half-stifled exclamation, he fell into silence, and walked on by her side gnawing his lip, and musing deeply. That look-that Helen look, as he had learnt in his fondness to call it, often as he had observed it, and winced under it, it seemed as if then for the first time he had penetrated its meaning. A door was, as it were, opened, through which a thousand detached recollections rushed into his mind, and filled it with the flash of their explosion-how sensitive his Helen was to all impressions of war and adventure; how the chance sight of anything scarlet through the trees would excite her; and how she would ever listen, as with quivering nostril, to a martial description or the narrative of a soldierly deed. All at that moment seemed plain to him, and he walked on harshly and mechanically as if by the side of a stranger.

For several days the incident of the bugle-blast could not be dismissed from his mind. It retained at first all the horrible importance which his thoughts had assigned it, but ere long he began to reflect how fantastic was his whole mode of construing such a circumstance. What corroboration was there in the whole history of his acquaintanceship with Helen for this his so subtle conclusion? During the five years which had elapsed since first he met her, had not the succession of her feelings

with regard to him been the main thread of her life, as his love for her had been of his? had she not surrendered to him at last, with tears and virgin blushes? and was he now to conjure up out of the depths of the long past a violent figment to undo all? No! his Helen, unhappy as it too evidently appeared she was, might indeed be recurring in memory to the past, but with no such specific regret as his fancy had been persuading him. And that she should not be so happy in the present, what wonder? How could he, a poor, wildly varying youth, not sufficient for himself, absorb, and hold the spirit of a creature so noble; how could she, fitted by nature and culture for a far other destiny, accommodate herself to a life so humble and uniform as she must lead with him? And in this new access of fondness he would re-enact the lover, gaze into her face, bend before her in spirit, and sigh for his own unworthiness.

Not long was it to last thus. On a Thursday evening (it was now early September) they were sitting at tea-pen, ink, and the half-finished manuscript of his Sunday's sermon lying on the table before him, pushed aside to make way for the tray-when a message was brought him from one of his parishioners who was thought to be dying, and wished to see him. As the distance was not so great but that he might walk, and be back before it was very dark, he did not order his horse to be saddled, but, hastily drinking his tea, set out on foot. He soon reached the cottage where the sick man lay. He was an old man of seventy years; but his frame had been strong, his illness was sudden, and it was painful to see how he still clung to life, and despairingly looked to the bystanders, as if they could help him and would not. When the young clergyman entered and approached his bed, the old man seemed to conceive an immediate hope, and grew calm, as if he had now one by him who, in virtue of his sacred office, had an interest with Death, and could extend him some protection. All the more terrible was it, when the other inmates of the cottage withdrew from the room and left them together, for the young clergyman to do what in such

66

face was slightly flushed; her under eyelids, swept by their fair lashes, wore the veiny hue which follows weeping; the breath went and came softly through her parted lips; and her light hair overspread her neck and pillow in long loose ringlets. Her sleep was gentle and profound. He gazed long at the unconscious breather, never more lovely than at this moment of sweet repose after sorrow. My poor Helen!" he at length said; and bending down kissed her lips. Faintly she upheaved her two blue windows, still sleeping; then, as they shut again, a frown or expression of pain passed over her countenance; and she turned her cheek to the pillow with a sigh. "Even in sleep she hates me,” he said, tremulously. Oh, Helen!" He rose, dressed himself, all save his hat, which was not in the room, and went out while she still slept. No one was astir in the manse. Unlocking the door, he walked into the open air, out at the garden-gate, and on and on. Striking out of the avenue into a path through a field on the left, he traversed the field, and was in the act of climbing over a paling to reach a cross-way which bounded it, when a man who was cutting turf on the other side of the bank raised his head, and, evidently surprised at the appearance of the clergyman abroad at such an hour and in such a guise, saluted him by discontinuing his work and touching his bonnet. The youth nodded, but did not speak; and the man gazed with no little astonishment after him, till a swell of the ground hid him from view.

About a mile from the manse of

and at a part of the coast not much frequented, the sea formed a small bight among the rocks, which, although the shore in general was jagged and rocky, were here higher, and flung together in more romantic shapes than at any other part. One spot in this cove, especially, was celebrated for its wild and dismal grandeur. This was where the surge, after dashing against many outer shelves and far-projecting masses of rock, rushed through a narrow opening into a circular pool or pot of un

known depth, where at high tide the water, with a peculiar purple-green tinge, plashed lazily against the sides of the cliff, but at low tide might be heard roaring through a

cavern

which went far into the rock beneath water-mark. From this pool, which from time immemorial had borne the name of Brownie's Pot, the cliff rose sheer on all sides to an immense height, jutting out here and there into a few white and splintery abruptnesses, about which the seabirds incessantly flew. Above, from the land side, a soft carpet of grass spread almost to the edge of the cliff; and the main point with the few tourists who visited the parish of

was to stand or recline on this carpet at a safe distance from the precipice, some time after low water, and hearken, with the wide seabord in view, to the thundering of the tide into the Brownie's Cave beneath.

It was in the direction of Brownie's Cave that the man cutting turf saw the minister of the parish of walk without his hat on the longremembered morning of the 6th of September, 18—. That afternoon the body of the young clergyman was found floating at the foot of the cliff in Brownie's Pot. It was brought out with some difficulty, and conveyed to the nearest house. The countenance was much distorted, and there was a deep gash on the right temple. The corpse was privately buried before morning, in a grave dug among the hemlock-stalks, close by the wall, in an unoccupied corner of the churchyard, where the sexton used to throw his broken pieces of coffin.

The widowed young wife returned to the city from which she had come. And the sun shone on that parish, and the linnet sang, and the sea beat against the rocks, and men ploughed the land and whistled; nevertheless, it remained from that hour overshadowed with a fear and a mystery, and the gusts of night swept aye mournfully over it, for that there the Lord had done a terrible thing, and an immature young soul had rushed upon its doom.

ness, for, turning round at length, he walked towards the mantelpiece and rang the bell.

66

Lights!" said he to the servant when she entered.

The servant brought in candles, and was retiring, when he said,"We shall have worship earlier to-night; you may come up.'

Removing the large Bible from a side table, and placing it in front of her master's chair, the girl went out. Reappearing soon with her two fellow-servants, the three seated themselves as usual on the chairs which stood near the door, with their Bibles in their hands, ready to turn to the chapter which the minister should name. Meanwhile the young wife retained her seat by the small window, towards which she directed her face, so as to be hid. Mechanically turning over the leaves of the volume before him, the youth singled out the first short psalm that struck his eye, and read it aloud. Then kneeling down, while the others did the same, he uttered a brief prayer, consisting of little besides those few formal thanksgivings for the mercies of the day, and petitions for rest and protection through the night, with which it was his habit always to conclude the evening worship. This over, the servants rose and withdrew.

"The minister has been unco' short the nicht, I think, Tibby," said the boy to the maid-servant, as they descended the stairs.

"It's little mair than nine o'clock," replied Tibby. "We'll hae time to read out yon story."

And down they went to the glowing kitchen, where, seated on stools in the chimney-corner, they were soon deep in a tale of awful doings in an old Gothic castle, where in the night-time doors slammed mysteriously in the dark corridor, and cries of a woman in distress were heard, and the shields on the walls resounded as if smitten by an unseen hand.

The young clergyman and his wife were again alone. He approached her; and as, alarmed by the unnatural calmness of his manner, she seemed to regard the movement with a dubious and shrinking look, he said,

"Do not fear your husband, Helen." Then, after a pause, "Helen,

I am a clergyman, a professed servant of God; we will go and bow ourselves before Him; who knows what may happen ?"

Extinguishing one of the lights, he took the other and went towards the door. She rose and followed him; and they proceeded together to their chamber. There he took her hand, and still holding it in his, they knelt down together at the bedside.

"O Father," he at length began in a broken voice, "look down on Thy son and daughter here before Thee, who have none to go to but Thee. We are wretched, O God; Thou knowest all. In Thy existence the woes of ages make not one pang. And we are but two poor young hearts; only two out of so many. Yet, O God, we are alive now; all else is unknown to us; this little moment of time is all we have. Take it not away, O God. O Thou infinite Spirit of the universe, if from afar Thou canst gather Thyself and listen to a voice like a man of flesh, hear and pity us. Bend, if it be Thy will, O Thou Ruler of spirits, the heart of this Thy daughter towards me, so that yet she may love me. If not, if Thou has otherwise determined

He could say no farther; sobs choked him; and, starting up, he flung himself into a seat, his head resting on the back, while in a paroxysm of wild fury and grief these broken words escaped through his closed teeth, "God-HelenPrayer-a sceptic, and a priest!" Afraid, pale, speechless, tearless, the young wife stood by.

There was little rest that night in that once dear room. From one of those snatches of horrid slumber into which he had at length fallen, and from which he was ever and anon roused by his own aching eye-sockets, the young clergyman awoke to find it clear morning. Through the leaves of the pear-tree which shaded the window, the sunshine came streaming in; and outside the birds were heard chirping about the eaves. His eye wandered through the room, a few hours ago the lighted scene of so much noisy misery, now wearing its quiet, disarranged morning look. Raising himself on his elbow, he gazed at the sleeper by his side. Her

face was slightly flushed; her under eyelids, swept by their fair lashes, wore the veiny hue which follows weeping; the breath went and came softly through her parted lips; and her light hair overspread her neck and pillow in long loose ringlets. Her sleep was gentle and profound. He gazed long at the unconscious breather, never more lovely than at this moment of sweet repose after sorrow. "My poor Helen!" he at length said; and bending down kissed her lips. Faintly she upheaved her two blue windows, still sleeping; then, as they shut again, a frown or expression of pain passed over her countenance; and she turned her cheek to the pillow with a sigh. "Even in sleep she hates me," he said, tremulously. "Oh, Helen!" He rose, dressed himself, all save his hat, which was not in the room, and went out while she still slept. No one was astir in the manse. Unlocking the door, he walked into the open air, out at the garden-gate, and on and on. Striking out of the avenue into a path through a field on the left, he traversed the field, and was in the act of climbing over a paling to reach a cross-way which bounded it, when a man who was cutting turf on the other side of the bank raised his head, and, evidently surprised at the appearance of the clergyman abroad at such an hour and in such a guise, saluted him by discontinuing his work and touching his bonnet. The youth nodded, but did not speak; and the man gazed with no little astonishment after him, till a swell of the ground hid him from view.

About a mile from the manse of

and at a part of the coast not much frequented, the sea formed a small bight among the rocks, which, although the shore in general was jagged and rocky, were here higher, and flung together in more romantic shapes than at any other part. One spot in this cove, especially, was celebrated for its wild and dismal grandeur. This was where the surge, after dashing against many outer shelves and far-projecting masses of rock, rushed through a narrow opening into a circular pool or pot of un

known depth, where at high tide the water, with a peculiar purple-green tinge, plashed lazily against the sides of the cliff, but at low tide might be heard roaring through a cavern which went far into the rock beneath water-mark. From this pool, which from time immemorial had borne the name of Brownie's Pot, the cliff rose sheer on all sides to an immense height, jutting out here and there into a few white and splintery abruptnesses, about which the seabirds incessantly flew. Above, from the land side, a soft carpet of grass spread almost to the edge of the cliff; and the main point with the few tourists who visited the parish of

was to stand or recline on this carpet at a safe distance from the precipice, some time after low water, and hearken, with the wide seabord in view, to the thundering of the tide into the Brownie's Cave beneath.

It was in the direction of Brownie's Cave that the man cutting turf saw the minister of the parish of walk without his hat on the longremembered morning of the 6th of September, 18—. That afternoon the body of the young clergyman was found floating at the foot of the cliff in Brownie's Pot. It was brought out with some difficulty, and conveyed to the nearest house. The countenance was much distorted, and there was a deep gash on the right temple. The corpse was privately buried before morning, in a grave dug among the hemlock-stalks, close by the wall, in an unoccupied corner of the churchyard, where the sexton used to throw his broken pieces of coffin.

The widowed young wife returned to the city from which she had come. And the sun shone on that parish, and the linnet sang, and the sea beat against the rocks, and men ploughed the land and whistled; nevertheless, it remained from that hour overshadowed with a fear and a mystery, and the gusts of night swept aye mournfully over it, for that there the Lord had done a terrible thing, and an immature young soul had rushed upon its doom.