CHAPTER V.

"Sweet pity filled her heart, and tears her eyes,
The while she listened to his pleading tone;
He, gazing on her, saw with glad surprise
The light that was the reflex of his own;
A love that was but pity in disguise,

And quickly deemed he that her heart was won."

MITCHI.

T does not require much to make youth

IT

joyous; the mere consciousness of existence, to a healthy, high-spirited being on a sunshiny day, thrills the nerves with pleasure. There is a bounding of the pulse, a renewed vitality, causing the step to be light, and the cheek to glow; merriment and laughter come without restriction, and without effort. We are young, and the sun shines that is sufficient; we desire nothing more to make us glad. To some how strange this declaration must seemsome who wake every morning in pain, whose days are one long heaviness, to whom

every breath that moves the branches is but

a chilling blast!

Ethel Gresham experienced a sense of unwonted exhilaration, as, on the appointed

day, she wended her way with her mother towards Talbot Park. It was a glorious summer morning, with just breeze enough stirring to prevent the heat from being excessive; the very day for a picnic or a fête. Ethel's spirits were overflowing; she could scarcely keep her feet steady to a regular, quiet walk; had it not been for Mrs. Gresham's constant injunctions to take care and not tear her new white dress, she would have climbed up the banks in search of wild flowers, and forced her way through the underwood in the park. Although she managed to restrain her feet, she could not restrain her tongue, and rattled on in a strain of the wildest nonsense, breaking forth now and then into scraps of songs, rivalling the thrushes in the hedges.

Soon afterwards, on looking back, Ethel

VOL. II.

I

wondered what could have possessed her that day to make her so lively—that day, which proved a crisis in her life; for henceforward she lost for ever her wild, thoughtless, girlish gaiety, and was never again quite the same giddy little Ethel.

"Miss Ethel looked really beautiful today," the housemaid observed to the cook, after assisting in the dressing of her young lady; and perhaps Mr. Langley thought so too, as he looked through the surgery window after her and her mother. Something made him sigh audibly, so audibly as to be heard by an unfortunate patient, who was seated in the operating-chair, waiting to have a tooth drawn: the patient thought the doctor had no cause to sigh-he had good teeth enough. Mr. Langley was still sufficiently young to experience a slight twinge of envy when others went for a day's freedom and pleasure; young enough to feel that the burden of work was sometimes a little galling; that it was very hard

that he, who had as much capability for enjoyment as others, should be shut out from all gaiety. It was but a momentary repining: he was too unselfish to grudge others pleasure because he could not participate in it; he only gave one sigh, and then returned to his duty, with his usual contentment.

When Ethel and her mother arrived at the Hall, Mr. and Mrs. Mayne, Harriett, and little Herbert were already there. After a cordial welcome from Lord Talbot, they proceeded at once to the hay-field, where they found St. Clare, who had returned from London the night before. He came forward and greeted Mrs. Gresham and her daughter with evident embarrassment; his cheek flushed crimson for a moment, and then as suddenly became colourless. He looked worn and altered, and their remarking it seemed to increase his confusion.

"It was too bad of you, to run away just at the time of our lecture," said Ethel; "I want to give you a good scolding about it.'

- To Ethel's astonishment, he did not appear to heed her words, but took Mr. Mayne's arm and walked away with him. "I have seen Burrows, this morning," he said.

"Indeed!"

"Yes, I met Mrs. Burrows by accident, in London, and she begged me to see him; so I rode over the first thing this morning. Poor fellow he is dreadfully cut up; he was never in prison before, and it seems a great downfall; he asked me to write to his wife and tell her to come and stay near the jail, but foolishly I never asked her address when in London. By the bye, who do you think sent a letter to me last night? O'Connell. Here it is."

And he handed a very rough-looking document to Mr. Mayne.

"He will appear if there is a trial—what does he mean?" said the vicar, glancing at the letter. "Of course, he must appear. He would like to see me-well, I'll certainly