then a new interest began to arise in his heart. For some months, Sunday after Sunday, the same places in his chapel were occupied by an English lady, her son and daughter. From week to week, the mother's face grew more wan, her steps more feeble, till at last the brother and sister came alone, with sorrow in their faces.

Gabriel's imagination was busy with their story; and he rejoiced when, by chance, he obtained an introduction to the young man, who, in his frank cordiality, soon became his intimate companion; and when he one day said, "Mr. Fairfield, will you come up and see my mother? she wants to know you?" Gabriel's heart beat high with pleasure and anticipation-anticipation which was not disappointed-of intercourse with minds of a higher cast than those with which

he had lately been associated, in his small circle of English acquaintance. They became intimate, and after his months of solitude of heart and mind, the friendship was indescribably precious. They talked -of what did they not talk? and Gabriel enjoyed the luxury of being able to tell his thoughts, of venturing an opinion beyond the narrow limits of conventional conversation, without encountering the wide, uncomprehending, slightly reproving stare, he was wont to meet from those respectable persons who were unable to think anything right or true, which militated against their own preconceived notions.

Lady Melton rejoiced to see the growing influence of Gabriel's high views and standard, on her son; influence most silently at work, as, in William's own words, he liked Mr. Fairfield "because

he was no prig, did not blow a fellow up for smoking, and did not thrust his own notions down one's throat;" and Gabriel, on his side, gladly listened to lamentations over the loss of the hunting season in England, interminable stories of "splendid runs," ecstatic praises of my hunter at Melton;" and reminiscences of Oxford life, free indeed from anything but boyish mischief, but strangely different from his own,-if thereby he could gain half an hour to sit by Lady Melton's sofa, and hear her kind, gentle voice, and answer Gertrude's shy questions, and give her in these answers, as she said, "something to think of." Then, too, he could help her in her drawing, and throw some light on the obscure passages in Dante; and, by degrees, these same drawing and Italian lessons became to him the one

thing to be looked forward to, the one point in the day, without which it was but a blank and a weariness.

No need to trace the old, old, ever new story.

All the affection of his deep, strong heart was poured out with the force and earnestness belonging to his character; and he knew that the one love of his life had come to him-knew it in the vivid beauty which gleamed from earth, and sky, and sea-in the intense feeling of life, real, true, glorious life, which throbbed in his heart; and in the shadow, as of death, which clouded that life, when the flash of remembrance came-remembrance of poverty, lowly birth, and the long, it might be lifelong, struggle, which lay between the present storms, and the sweet, calm haven of a blessed happy home.

He trusted his own power, and continued his visits to the villa; he could not cast from him those blissful hours, purchased, as they were, by following hours of misery. He continued, at the same time, his work, his writing; sometimes compelled by the ever-growing need of expressing his thoughts; sometimes with the wild, vague idea of increasing his income to such an amount, as he might, without madness, offer to share with a wife. "We could be happy enough without conventional luxuries," he would think; and then going to the villa, the sweet dream would be overthrown by one glance at Gertrude: the quiet elegance of her dress and manner, the luxury of the rooms she lived in, her evident ignorance of household matters, and want of interest in them, all forbid his vain imagin