At That sometimes from the savage den, There came and look'd him in the face And that, unknowing what he did, He leap'd amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death, And how she wept and clasp'd his knees, The scorn that crazed his brain. His dying words !-but when I reach'd every stanza the reciter became more and more animated; his colour deepened, his eyes sparkled, his countenance glowed, the transcript of his story, his breast laboured, his action unconsciously adapted itself to his incidents, and his tones breathed alike the poet and the lover; but as he came towards the conclusion, he hurried over the stanzas : "All impulses of soul and sense Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve; The rich and balmy eve; And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, And gentle wishes, long subdued,- His voice became almost inaudible; at length he stopped. "I have forgotten the rest," said he; "I only know it ends with, 'And so I won my Genevieve, And, as he repeated the words, he knelt a moment at Mar garet's feet, as if in playful gallantry, to complete the illusion of the scene; but lo! she was in tears! It seemed a new world that was opened to her. Never before had she heard such delicious accents, never before looked upon a countenance so effusive of soul. The refined and intellectual nature of her delight was scarcely understood, even by herself. She was overpowered by feelings of sympathy, of tenderness, of admiration-she knew not what. She was herself, at that moment, the living, breathing Genevieve of the poet's fancy. CHAPTER XXII. THE CONFESSION. "VERY well, indeed, sir," said Mr. Slender; "it is a beautiful little picture you have given us; quite a tale of chivalry; and, at any rate, you see you can melt your audience," smiling as he looked towards Margaret, who now raised her head and smiled too, as she dashed away her tears; seeing which, Lucy ran and seated herself on her knee, and kissed her, for that was Lucy's invariable mode of congratulating, or condoling; comforting, or deprecating; whatever might be the nature of the case that called forth her feelings, whenever they rose to a certain pitch, they were always manifested in that same way. The young man's looks expressed his gratification. "I will bring you Coleridge's poems," said he, to Margaret, in a tone soft as that of the minstrel-knight himself, "with Mr. Slender's leave. I have them by me; it is the first edition, and this story is in it. The volumes are a little defaced by my own pencil-marks; but if you will accept them, I shall feel much honoured." "I shall like them all the better for the marks," said Margaret; "they will guide me to the choice of beauties." 66 Yes," said Lucy, "I know you will look out for the passages with them, and they will be the first you will read." It was a very natural remark of Lucy's, but Margaret crimsoned over at it, because, in fact, she had already thought exactly the same thing. young man ; "I 'Perhaps our tastes will agree," said the shall be very proud should that be the case.' "Spenser, Milton, Shakspeare, Thomson, Akenside, Gray, Collins, Shenstone's Elegies, and an odd volume or two of Fugitive Poetry, have bounded, I believe, my daughters' poetical studies," said Mr. Slender; "they know very little about living authors, for we are neither in the way of hear ing them spoken of, nor procuring their works." "In some circles," said the young man, "certainly an acquaintance with popular authors is indispensable-they are so often made the themes of conversation; but then how easily such knowledge is acquired." Margaret's bosom swelled with a something like sorrow, different from anything she had ever felt before, as she listened to this remark; for when she looked at the young man's speaking countenance and graceful figure, and his deportment at once respectful and easy, all blended with an air of even aristocratic independence, she could not help thinking that the society which could impart such polish-such intellectual cultivation-must be something very delightful. And then came the reflection, naturally mingled with the regret which had prompted her sigh, that she should never know anything of it, or its advantages. 'No, we shall never meet any of the people to whom he has evidently been accustomed," thought she, " and most likely, when he leaves Barnwell, we shall never see him again.” 66 Was there one thought of frivolity or ambition in that pure and hitherto tranquil bosom that caused her, at that moment, for the first time in her life, to think Creykedale too secluded a spot for young women of any refinement to pass their whole lives in? Certainly not; but as certainly, some thought did at that moment cast a shade over her countenance, which was increased, in spite of herself, by the fear that it would be instantly observed by her father or Lucy. Fortunately, however, just then, a knock at the door drew the attention of all parties into a different channel. It was a timid, humble, weak knock; but on that very account it was answered with the more haste. "It is a beggar," said Lucy, starting up, and instantly the remnants of the scanty dinner presented themselves before her housewifely though laughing eye. "It is from poor Molly Simpson, I fear," said the curate, rising instinctively for his hat; "she was near her departure for the eternal world when I read the prayers for the sick to her this morning, before I went to Widow Tomlinson's. Poor creature! it is a blessed release to her; but God help the five little ones she leaves behind, motherless and fatherless." Alas! it was one of those five little ones that had knocked at the door, and now stood at it shivering with cold, faint with hunger, weeping with fright and grief, and holding in her small attenuated hand a bottle not bigger than one of those from which a fine lady's maid scents her lady's handkerchief, and occasionally her own, with eau de mille fleurs at fifteen shillings the flacon. "Mammy was taken so bad, and rolled her eyes, and said, 'Mr. Slender,—and sister Jenny thought a drop of red wine would give her some strength." "Red wine!" said Mr. Slender, speaking in a low tone, as if to himself, as Lucy held out to him the lilliputian decanter; "what it is to be poor! I have not had such a thing in my house these three years save that which the young gentleman sent in last Sunday, and all that was left is given away already. "There is the bottle of raisin," said Margaret, "that Mrs. Lawson sent us after the christening; perhaps, poor thing, she would not know the difference." "Perhaps not, dear child,-with the poor, anything that is not beer, or spirits, is wine; but I fear she is too far gone to derive benefit from any earthly cordial. Fill this tiny affair, however, Lucy, from good Mrs. Lawson's bottle, and bring me my great coat, and I will take it to the poor woman myself." "Dear father!" said Margaret, "but you are tired, and the night is bad, is it not?" "No matter, my child; the poor woman has no time to wait for a change in the weather. I shall not be long away, if she be as I fear. I shall look in at the House of Industry as I go, to speak about the little ones; but, however, you will have tea ready by the time I come back, and I should not mind if I saw a couple of eggs with it, for I am faintish myself, having walked eight miles since dinner"-which dinner, entre nous, dear reader, for there was no occasion to say so before the young performer, had only consisted of roasted potatoes, marshalled round a small slice of bacon; on the same principle that a poor Irishman places a morsel of red herring on the table graced by his dozen spalpeens, towards which each points "the cratur, bursting and smiling, through its jacket," to give it the fanciful relish which they pointedly call "potatoes and point." 66 Yes, it shall all be ready by the time you come back," said Lucy, as she lighted the good man to the door, and then ran into the kitchen to make, as the phrase is, the kettle boil. That pretty little kitchen! ah, readers, if you had seen it, you would have thought everything prepared in it, however simple, must needs be excellent. A neat little fireplace, with a little oven on one side, a little boiler on the other; a little dresser, white as cream-cheese, with two drawers, one for the table-linen, the other for the homelier department of dusters, pudding-cloths, and similar indispensables of good management; the plate creel (I like these old Saxon words) above, with its neat service of willow pattern for use, and its antique dishes of yellow delf for show; the shelf below, with its range of pans and kettles, which Gerard Dow himself, might have been proud to immortalize on canvas; and then the square walnut table in the middle; the four chairs of the same material; the "Nicely-sanded floor; The varnish'd clock, that tick'd behind the door;" 66 and the queenly tabby, that held her throne upon a morsel of carpet in the chimney-corner. Sooth to say, it was, as Miss Emily Eleonora would have expressed it, a love of a place," and reflected credit on the active hands that kept it so. Perhaps, to own the truth, it was on Lucy that the care of this very essential department of comfort in every ménage, small or great, principally devolved. It was her special territory: she would have detected in an instant a finger mark on the dresser, or a footstep on the floor, and would have screamed with surprise and indignation at the sight of a plate or a pan out of its proper place. We will leave her, then, in her own domain, poising the kettle, |