size, castellated turrets, and commanding position, give to it the appearance of a baronial castle of the olden time. Beyond this, comes the little village of Ilkley, famous for its medicinal waters, its summer visitors, and merry pic-nic parties: and then, fading gradually away in the distance, the dark woods of Bolton close in the picture. Now (again returning to our place on the Chevin) let us direct our attention for a moment in the opposite direction. Though not so diversified, we have an equally beautiful landscape. Wood and water naturally, yet most artistically, intermingle; here and there a pretty little village, embowered like a wild bird in its nest, is partly discernible; and, every now and then, the eye rests upon the spire of some rural little church, which at once awakens associations in the heart that cause us almost involuntarily to turn "From nature up to nature's God." The landscape, as before, is bounded in the distance by the mantling woods of another princely domain, the property of one of the most worthy and high-minded of our English nobility. Now looking for a moment directly in front of us, towards the north, we again encounter another princely residence, the home, not of a nobleman, but of a wealthy commoner, a man of letters, a hoarder of Cromwellian relics, a persevering politician, and a fierce partizan. Beyond this, a little to the West, the giant-like form of Almais Crag stands prominently forth, and seems, as a modern poet has said of the unconquered isle of Corsica, -To dare The wildest fury of the beating storm." At the foot of this crag let the reader picture to his imagination our village,-that village to which we have some time ago introduced him. It has one long narrow street, the hostelry bounding it on the one hand, the parsonage on the other; and there, at a short distance, in a close green lane which is entered from about the centre of the village, amidst a thick clump of dark fir-trees, stands the "old house at home," the pretty Rosery. It is a plain Elizabethan building, with pointed roof, and strong mullioned windows as true in architectural design as it is perfect in respect of locality and position. It is surrounded on three sides by a most exquisite flower-garden, and bounded on the back by a dark and venerable plaintain, which adds not only to the beauty of the place, but serves as an effectual shelter from the bleak winds of the frigid north. It is just that kind of place one never looks upon without a feeling of delight. The painter and the poet can behold in it at once a subject to adorn a picture and a song. With this brief sketch, this rough etching, rude and imperfect as it is, we close our chapter, leaving the reader to work up and finish, as his imagination may suggest, the beauties of the picture. CHAPTER VII. AFTER the arrival of Melville and his bride in England, they had lost no time in communicating with Mrs. Cavendish. Both had written to her, explaining clearly and implicitly the motives which had induced them to adopt the line of conduct they had done, and at the same time, casting themselves entirely on her good nature, soliciting forgiveness of their fault. Sufficient time for them to have received an answer to their joint appeal had long ago elapsed, yet post after post had as yet arrived in vain,-not a word had been received from Italy. Poor Lisette, who had at first ventured to hope for a prompt and ready forgivenesss, daily began to suffer more and more from this apparent coldness and neglect. Her usually buoyant and elastic spirits were frequently overshadowed by gloomy depressions, and Melville was too deeply skilled in the mysterious workings of the human heart, not to sympathise in her sorrow. True it was, the young couple were still all in all to each other; true it was, that whatever might be the sacrifice they had now to make, they could not as far as they were individually concerned, ever regret the step they had taken. The first out. bursts of passion, however, having settled down into the calm placidity of sober love, both felt, and that most bitterly, how fearful a thing it was to have a parent's angry malediction on their heads. Time wore away, and nothing daunted by their first ill success, a second, and eventually a third, appeal was made to the unforgiving mother, and long did it seem doubtful, indeed, whether or not even this their third attempt to win for themselves forgiveness and reconciliation was not destined to meet with the same unpitying coldness and neglect. "Here, here, my dear Leicester, it has come at last," exclaimed Lisette, one sunny morning, as she bounded merrily into the little greenhouse at the Rosery, a flush of joyous expectation mantling her cheek and brow. "What do you mean, Lisette?" inquired Leicester, almost throwing down a large camellia plant which he was just in the act of pruning, in his astonishment. "Mean! why the letter, to be sure. Look you, dear Melville, here it is. Sweet, long looked for letter," and stretching forth her pretty little hand towards her husband, she placed before him a large business-like missive bearing the Italian mark. 'Well," replied Melville, after turning over the letter, and eyeing it intently for a few moments, "it certainly does look as though our hopes were now about to be realized; but do not be too sanguine, my dear Lisette; there are more people in Italy than one, from whom this may have come." “No, no, Melville; I know the handwriting too well to harbour a doubt. Yes," continued she, again taking up the letter and minutely inspecting its direction, "that is my dear mother's writing, I am quite sure of it. At all events, we will soon satisfy ourselves on this point." In a moment the huge seal was removed, and with palpitating hearts the young couple read the intelligence it conveyed. The anticipations of the gentle Lisette were at once confirmed. The letter was, indeed, from Mrs. Cavendish, but how different a letter to what even their darkest fears had led them to expect! It was long, crossed and crossed, but there was throughout every sentence a cold, upbraiding tone, which sank deeply into the hearts of Melville and his young wife. From the beginning to the end there was not a single word that had been dictated in a kind and gentle spirit, not a word of parental affection, nor was there even held out a single hope of forgiveness. On the contrary, every succeeding line seeemed rather to indicate the stern unbending temper of the writer, to be still, as ever, irreconcileable. Her eyes suffused with tears, her breast heaving with agitation, Lisette listened eagerly to every word as she heard it tremblingly fall from her husband's quivering lips. The letter was finished, and Lisette's grief was at its climax. "Ah!" exclaimed Melville, turning over the letter in his hands, "here is a postscript I have overlooked." She "Henceforth it will be well for Mrs. Leicester Melville to bear in mind that she must ever remain a stranger to her family. has chosen her own path in life, and must abide the consequences. Melville's intellectual brow became contracted, and a gleam of indignation lighted up his countenance. It was but for a moment. Then summoning all the better feelings of his heart, he assumed a look of calmness and placidity, and with a smile of trusting confidence grasped the hand of his sorrowing wife warmly within his own. "Come, come, dear Lisette, it is now fruitless to repine. You have given up all for my sake. Depend upon it I shall not underrate the sacrifice." "Melville,” replied the heart-stricken girl, brushing the tears from her cheek, "Melville, I know too well the noble feelings that influence your heart, not to feel assured that this letter will bind you more closely to me than ever. It seems, after all, that I must indeed sacrifice every thing; no matter, no matter, so long as I have your love; I would willingly lay down my life for your sake. I did wrong, nay, we both did wrong, Melville, yet this cruelty far outsteps the enormity of our fault. In marking out my own destiny, I followed the honest dictates of my heart, and whatever may have been rash and undutiful in my conduct arose, not from any desire on my part to be so, not from any unworthy childishness or caprice, but from the fear of being irresistibly led into a compact which I could not even contemplate without loathing and abhorrence. I know my mother would have had me marry the Count D'Almaviva, yes, even though I have often sworn to her on my knees that I could never love him. Why was this? why? Melville, give me the letter. There, there," and she tore it in a thousand fragments, "there, let it go to the winds. It was a cruel, a very cruel, letter, yet I can forgive, forget all. If I am a forsaken child, an outcast from my mother's breast, I thank God I am not a perjured wife." It was long ere the usually calm and placid girl could subdue the agitation into which she had been thrown; it was long ere her attentive and compassionate husband could succeed in alleviating the bitterness of her anguish. Fortunately, perhaps, for both, the Rev. Miles Stapleton, accompanied by his daughter, paid an early visit to the Rosery on the morning in question. The good old clergyman and his daughter were at once made acquainted with the cause of their distress, and, as usual, kindly offered that consolation to the young sufferers which their daily experience had taught them so aptly to administer: yet, even in these words of consolation, there was every now and then a gentle mingling of reproof which seldom failed to work the desired result -repentance and reformation. True it was, as the gentle Lisette had justly observed, she had done wrong, but not such wrong as to justify this cold and heartless conduct of her parent. This fact was not overlooked by the Rev. Miles Stapleton; rarely, however, had he allowed himself to be led into an expression of his thoughts. A long and intimate acquaintance with the human heart, had made him too thoroughly skilled in its mysterious and apparently irreconcileable workings, to permit himself ever to be led into any act that might be the means of calling into activity any of those dark and unhallowed passions which ever steal so closely, yet so secretly, on the footsteps of all that is good and noble. Long and rejoicingly had he observed the sorrow of his young neighbours for their one fault, long had he felt an intense inclination to take them to his heart, to bid them be of "good cheer," to become a ready witness of their deep and all sufficient repentance. His sterner reason, however, forbade the gentle promptings of his heart. True, indeed, it was, sufficient atonement had been made, yet there was no forgiveness. The mother, not the children, was now the guilty one, and yet, for the Rev. Miles Stapleton to have avowed this, freely and unreservedly for him to have compassionated, on the one hand, while he condemned, on the other, might have been productive of most evil consequences. Better, far better, let them drain the dregs of repentance still a little deeper, than by a hasty, though it may be a well merited, sympathy with their wrong, give strength to feelings which may eventually cause them incalculable sorrow and misery. Good and pure-hearted as they were, there was still so much of the old leaven of human nature lurking within their breasts as to render them at times subservient to the darker feelings of humanity. Sorrow and repentance might readily have been followed by pride and indignation, mutual anger and resentment. Then, then, indeed, would the result have been most ruinous. As tares thrown in amidst wheat soon spring up, and choke the good seed in its growth, so such passions, once called into activity in the hearts of young people, soon become the most effectual barrier to the exercise of all the better feelings of our nature. THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. BY MRS. EDWARD THOMAS. "An extremely affecting account is given of the manner in which the Duchess Dowager de Praslin, the mother of the duke, who is nearly blind, has been made acquainted with the death of her daughter-in-law, whom she loved most tenderly. She was at first informed that her unfortunate daughter had been murdered by robbers. Upon this, she desired that her son might come to her, and they would mourn together. Expressing her extreme surprise that he did not come to her, it became necessary to make her gradually and cautiously acquainted with the truth. Upon this, she sank into a state of complete despair. The four younger daughters have been taken to their grandmother, Madame de Praslin."-Paris Paper. I AM confused, and sick, and faint; oh! feel my hand, how cold, But by that creeping fearfulness that stagnates round the heart, |