found himself very undesignedly posted behind Lady Octavia and Lord George, who was supplying her with ice and sherbet, and finishing some speech of "infinite humor," at which her ladyship was laughing as heartily as it was admissible that lips polite should laugh. "Now really, my lord! you are too severe," murmured those lovely lips between the spoonfuls of ice-" you are too hard upon my pastor fido-an excellent obliging creature, I assure you-really quite civilized, and has been infinitely useful to me in that horrid desert. No such Cymon' either, as you call him; and as for Iphigenia-" "The fair Octavia will not confess having charitably enacted that characterher delight is to do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.'-But seriously though this pastoral pet of yours-this Mister-by the by, what a vastly appropriate name!—this Mister Verdant-"-" How can you be so excessively absurd!" uttered the lady, convulsed with inward laughter at his lordship's wit-" you know his name's Vernon ; I call him Le Beau Lindor.'"

"Le Beau Lindor" had heard quite enough; backing with such inconsiderate suddenness, as almost to upset good Mrs. Buzby, and a dignitary of the church, in his brusque retreat he left the ball-room-cleared the stairs at a bound-and by a progress almost as rapid, gained Dr. Hartop's residence, and the sanctuary of his own chamber. What were his meditations after he had shut himself within it, securing himself by turning the key from possible intrusion, we cannot nicely determine, but may fairly infer they were not of a very philosophic nature, from certain sounds of heavy and irregular footsteps-portentous thumps and bangs, indicating the violent derangement of furniture, the opening and shutting of drawers, with no gentle and deliberate hand, and the dragging backwards and forwards of a portmanteau; which disturbance was so audible in the hall below, as to excite the wonder and

curiosity of the "liveried loungers," one of whom at last tapped at the visiter's door, with a civil request, to know if Mr. Vernon wanted anything, or had rung his bell. Nothing," was the short and comprehensive reply, in a tone which interdicted farther intrusion; but all became quiet within the chamber, and by the time the footman had rejoined his fellows of the buttery, its solitary occupant was seated in perfect stillness-a packed portmanteau on the floor beside him

his elbows propped on the table before which he sat, and his face concealed by his two hands, upon the outspread palms of which rested his hot and throbbing temples. "Millicent! Millicent!" were the first sounds that after a spell of profound silence, struggled through his scarcely unclosed lips and half-shut teeth. But it seemed as if his own utterance of that gentle name stung him to agony; for, starting back from the table, he flung out his arm across it with so much violence, as to dash off two or three books that had been piled together, and now came to the floor with a noisy fall, which apparently aggravated Vernon's irritable mood, for he spurned the volumes with a kick that sent them sprawling in all directions, but left on the spot when they had fallen, a letter, which, in the general dispersion, escaped from its hiding place within one of their covers. That letter caught Vernon's eye, and in a moment he was fixed, still, motionless, almost unbreathing as a statue, gazing on that small white square of folded paper, as if a serpent lay coiled before him. And there was cause-full cause and weightyfor that shrinking, yet fascinated gaze. That letter was from Sea Vale-from Millicent. Five days before, it had been placed in Vernon's hand, and the seal was yet unbroken! It had been brought to his chamber door, just as he had caught up his hat and gloves, to attend Lady Octavia, who was waiting for him in the hall, on a pic-nic excursion to some picturesque spot, in the vicinity of Exeter. He

hand was on the seal, and yet he felt at that moment that he would rather defer the perusal of its contents. An impatient summons came from a silvery voice below-Vernon started gave one look to the direction-one kiss to the well-known characters, and slipt the unopened letter within the covers of a book that lay on the table, to be flown to, to be read in undisturbed quietness, the moment of his return. Five days ago that letter had been so deposited. There it had remained till the present moment, untouched, unread, unremembered! and Vernon, how had he passed that interval ? What were his feelings, when suddenly before him lay that mute accuser?" Madman that I have been!" he groaned aloud, and sinking into a chair, his tears fell fast on the unnerved fingers, that could with difficulty break open the seal, which had been too long inviolate. Millicent's letter, which enclosed another, ran thus :—

"MY DEAR HORACE,

"You desired me to open any letters which might arrive for you while you were absent. I have done so by the enclosed, which I forward to you immediately; for, as you will see, it is one that concerns you nearly-that calls you to take possession of the longpromised living. I thank God, my dear Horace, that I have lived to congratulate you on this event; and I pray God to make it blessed to you; and to bless you in your faithful service here, and in the reward of it hereafter. But this is not my only reason for pressing your return your immediate return to Sea Vale, even-(was I ever before so selfishly exacting, Horace ?)—even should inclination, or any cause short of necessity, detain you at Exeter. You will soon again be at liberty to return thither, or to seek the society of your other friends wherever they may be. There will be time enough for them for all-but not for me, dear Horace. Therefore, for your own sake more than mine, come,-come

not nearly so well-as when you left me; I cannot leave my bed now, or sit up in it for more than half an hour at a time; and even the writing these few lines exhausts me; so you see you must come soon-very, very soon, if—But I need not urge it-I know you will be with me directly— almost, and that I shall have time and strength left to thank and bless youand comfort you, dear Horace; and that we shall yet talk together—pray together-Oh, yes! and that I shall receive from your hands the pledge of our immortal hope-of our certain reunion. M. A."

An abler, a far abler narrator than I am, might well shrink from attempting to describe Vernon's feelings as he read this letter, or their first frantic ebullition after he had perused it. For some moments all within him was anarchy and distraction. Agonies of remorse and terror, and images of death crowded upon each other in hurrying confusion, like the phantas"magoria of a frightful dream—and his ears rang with an imaginary cry, “Too late! too late!" that withered and benumbed his powers of action, while a contrary impulse impelled them to promptest exertion. The latter soon obtained the mastery, however, and another glance at the date of the letter

eral stages, while tired post-boys were roused from their heavy slumbers, and galled cattle dragged from their short rest (Oh! how interminable seemed every moment's delay !)—in spite of these and other trifling hindrances, he reached the hill-top that overlooked Sea Vale before the stars began to "pale their ineffectual fires" in the uncertain dawn of a dull, cheerless October morning. The village below was distinguishable only as a black shapeless mass, lying in the deep shadows of the surrounding hills. Only one twinkling light gleamed at its entrance, from the lamp-post of the single inn; yet Vernon strained his eyes through the darkness, on-on-towards the more distant dwellings, till he fancied he could descry the wellknown gable-the tall round chimney -the two shadowing elms-among the confused and indefinite outline of trees and buildings.

It was but imagination-the rapid portraiture of memory; but his heart beat quicker at the fancied sight, and leaping from the carriage, he left it to pursue its more leisurely way towards the inn-yard, and rushing down the remainder of the declivity, sprung over a stile into a meadow-path which would take him, by a short cut through a field or two, into the green lane, the back way to the Cottage. That way was so familiar to him, that, to his eye, every object was as recognizable by that dim light-that "darkness visible"-as it would have been at noonday; and what emotions-what recollections-pressed upon him, as he leapt the last gate into the bowery lane-as he trode once more its soft greensward, now thickly strewn with a rustling carpet of autumnal leavesas he passed the grey spectral-looking stems of the two old thorns at the corner of the garden hedge! And as he pursued his way along that memorable path, every and each one of those inanimate uncertain shapes stood out with ghastly distinctness to his mind's eye, and he gazed on them with such intensity of vision, as if he could have read, in the aspect of

33 ATHENEUM, VOL. 2, 3d series.

those senseless things, some intimation of the nature of that dread certainty, which, nevertheless, as the decisive moment drew near, he shrank from ascertaining. As the Cottage really became visible, and a patch of its white walls now and then discernible through the leafless fence, a cold shuddering ran through his whole frame, and he stopt abruptly, as if an unseen hand had checked his progress. All was darkness on that side the Cottage. No light from within streamed through either of the small latticesbut only Nora's sleeping room lay that way. Millicent's-the sick chamber, opened to the front. Was it still only the chamber of sickness? Alas! that miserable hope! But it was the more dreadful doubt that still delayed Vernon's onward steps-that seemed to stagnate the very current of his blood, so deadly was the weight and sickness that hung about his heart. A minute more-he had only to turn the corner of that small dwelling-to cast up one look at the well-known window, and suspense would terminate; for surely, he said within himself, a light would beam from that chamber if life were there" if life!”

within the lattice; but through its thin texture, Vernon could discern the white curtains of the bed, and at the other end of the chamber a high bracket, on which stood the night-lamp, before a large china vase which Millicent had always been wont to keep replenished with flowers or evergreens. To what trifles (as drowning creatures cling to straws) will the miserable, the almost hopeless, cling for consolation ! Vernon's heart beat more equally—his breath came freerat sight of that insignificant object, for the vase was filled with verdure. Were the boughs fresh or withered ? He drove away the officious suggestion, for his soul yearned for the faintest shadow of comfort. If not her hand, Nora's had filled the vase. The dear one herself, therefore, must still be susceptible of pleasure from objects which would cease to interest the dying. Was it yet possible? But though Hope's passing whisper was eagerly caught at, Vernon dared not dwell upon its soothing sweetness. He dared not anticipate-he dared not think-and now he would have given worlds to exchange that terrible stillness which yet pervaded all thingsthat bodily inaction to which he was condemned, for the universal stir of human life, and some occasion that should call upon him for violent corporeal exertion. Anything, everything would have been welcome, which might have afforded scope for the nervous restlessness that now agitated his whole frame to expend itself, or have gained the slightest reliefthe most transient diversion of thought -for the mental fever, which increased with every lingering moment of suspense. But as yet, except the expiring gleam of that pale watchlight, no sign or sound of life was seen or heard within the Cottage; and without, so profound and deathlike was the hush of nature, that Vernon could have fancied its mighty pulses had stood still, or beat only in his own throbbing arteries.

The gloomy daybreak advanced so tardily, that none but quite near ob

jects were yet visible, through the sea of white unwholesome vapor that now seemed melting into drizzling rainnow condensing itself into a solid wall around the Cottage, and a few yards of its small territory. The dank moisture clung like transparent glue to the bare leafless branches of the deciduous trees, and collecting into large globules at their extremities, on the heavy drooping heads of the dark evergreens, and along the Cottage eaves, dropt to the ground with sullen plashes, dismally breaking at intervals the otherwise universal silence.

Vernon still watched the casement of that little chamber, within whose walls his all of earthly interest-his hopes-his fears-his very being, hung suspended upon a dread uncertaintya flitting life-a fluttering breath, perhaps at that very moment passing away forever. All hitherto had remained quiet in the chamber. Suddenly a figure passed slowly across, between the curtained window and the bed's foot-a tall dark figure, that could be only Nora's. It was stationary for a moment before the lamp, which, as day advanced, had condensed its pale rays into a small red globe of flame, and that dying spark was gone, when the tall form moved away from the spot where it had been, and advanced towards the window, which was partially unclosed, and a wrinkled hand and arm put forth from beneath the still drawn blind to secure the lattice. "And the morning air so cold and damp to breathe on that dear sufferer! Could Nora be so incautious?" And Vernon advanced his hand unconsciously, as if to close the casement. But he was unnoticed from thence, and the female form receded.

from within, to whom he might make cautious application for admittance; but soon, impatient of fruitless waiting, he moved away to steal round the corner of the cottage and seek admittance at the back entrance. As he stept guardedly from the porch, his eyes glanced on a large white rosetree that grew beside it, and, struck with sudden recollection, he stopped to look sorrowfully on the well-known shrub. There were yet a few yellow leaves upon the straggling branches, and many ripening berries, indicating the past profuseness of its summer bloom. But from the stem on which Vernon's eyes were riveted with painful interest, the flower-sprig he looked for had been recently cut off. "The last rose of summer" had not been left to wither on its stalk, though the hand was far away that should have stuck the late blossom in Millicent's bosom. Just as Vernon turned the corner of the building, he heard the withdrawing of a bolt from the kitchen door, and as it slowly opened, he was moving forward with nervous precipitation, when the sight of a stranger startled him for a moment from his purpose, and before he had time to recover himself and accost her, the young girl, carrying a milking stool and pail, was already half way down the garden walk in her way to the field and cow-shed. A word-the slightest sound would have reached and recalled her, but Vernon shuddered, and was silent. Again as the decisive moment drew near, he shrunk from certainty-especially from stranger's lips. He would seek Nora -he would learn his fate from her. So, suffering the young girl to pass on out of sight, he gently pushed open the door, which she had left ajar, and stole noiselessly into the kitchen. Its comfortless disordered state sadly contrasted the beautiful neatness and arrangement, which had been wont in happier days to distinguish poor Nora's peculiar territory. The hearth was heaped with ashes of long accumulation, and the embers of a fire that had evidently burnt all night still

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emitted a feeble warmth, and dull red light from the lower bars of the grate, to which they had sunk far beneath the trivet and large black kettle, from which issued no cheerful morning sound of bubbling water. Unwashed tea things, with fragments of bread, butter, and cheese, and an end of tallow candle turned down into the pool of grease which had accumulated in the deep tin candlestick, were huddled together on the slopped and soiled little round table, that it had been Nora's pride to keep bright and polished as a looking-glass. Scattered plates and cups, a waiter, with cut and squeezed lemon, and other evidences of late attendance on a sick room, were all noted by Vernon with deepest interest; and if the survey relieved him of his worst fears, he sighed heavily at thoughts of the best he had to anticipate. A glass half filled with lemonade stood on a salver on the dresser; he raised, and put it to his lips, (for perhaps hers had recently touched its brim,) and as he did so, called to mind her affecting desire to receive from his hand another cup, which now he might be so soon called on to present to her. "If it must be-strengthen me for the task, oh God!" was the inward ejaculation of a heart that could yet scarcely bring itself to add, "Thy will be done."

Still Nora appeared not, and reasonably concluding that, leaving the young char-woman to attend to household concerns, she had kept her station in the sick-chamber, he stole from the kitchen along the matted passage towards the staircase-but the door of the little parlor being open, he mechanically stopped at it. The shutters had been removed since he looked at the windows from without, and now the formal arrangement of the furniture-the cold, dreary, uninhabited look of the once cheerful little sitting room, struck him forcibly, with a more painful sense of change, than even the unwonted disorder of poor Nora's kitchen. As he stood on the threshold in mournful contemplation, a