He paused, in a flutter of emotion, thinking a thousand things more than he said.

"What can I do for you now?" she said, simply.

"No. I do not like to ask her," he answered aloud, but as if to himself. She looked at him, and their eyes met. She turned away, and as if she missed something, rose and walked across the room.

When she returned. "Now," she said, "tell me what you wish me to do."

"I have heard of-of your singing," he said. "I wish-will you sing me something?"

"O yes," she replied directly, "if it will amuse you. But-"}

"Oh do so then. Do!" he exclaimed eagerly.

She left the room, and returned almost immediately, Annette with her, carrying a cithern, or old-fashioned harp. As the servant placed it for her, she walked to her frame of work, and bent over it, but did nothing. A sort of constraint had come over her. He noticed it. What was the cause?

Her embarrassment did not last long. She sat down, and put the instrument in tune, and played a chord or two: soft gentle chords. And then she spoke.

"Mine are not the songs which soldiers like," she said. "I do not sing of war, and wine, and love.

I rarely sing any but the old songs which my mother loved," and her voice trembled slightly. She stopped.

"I never knew my mother," Geoffrey answered. She looked to him, for his voice seemed deeper and more sympathetic than it had ever sounded to her before. Did they really understand one another then? Sweet hope!

She played a short prelude, and then sang somewhat as follows:

THE TWO SONGS.

The Lark soars heavenward when the day is young,
Bold with its hopes, and loud-voiced in its song:-
While among shades the Nightingale takes rest,
Peacefully calm, and in contentment blest.

Long ere the evening comes the Lark sinks down;
Weak are its strains, its hopes of glory--gone;-
While far and near the Nightingale's sweet voice
Hails gentle night, and bids the world rejoice.

So, in the morn of Life, Ambition soars,
So fall ere eve men's hopes, so fail men's powers ;—
While-calm and still all day, the voice of Faith
Hails quiet night, when life is closed in death.

Life's morning over, and life's evening come,
Earth-hopes depart, and Glory's voice grows dumb;
But Faith its sweetest aid at death supplies-
Sings, tho' man fails, and triumphs, -as he dies.

She ceased; and neither spoke. The last soft chord died slowly on the ear: and all was silent. But to him the low tones seemed to fill the chamber

still, to hang about his heart like angel music, and he listened to them breathlessly.

At last she glanced up timidly at him. Were her eyes dim with tears, or was he weeping, too? She did not know she never knew-but when he put out his thin and wasted hand, she placed hers in it, and returned his gentle pressure :-then, alarmed, withdrew it, and turned somewhat hurriedly away.

When he next looked up, he was alone.

CHAP. II.

THE ARBOUR.

The ripeness or unripeness of the occasion, as we said, must ever be well weighed. . . . When things are once come to the execution, there is no secresy comparable to celerity.

Lord Bacon, Of Delays.

Occasion, God sent, rushes storming on among the world's events, swift, perilous, like a whirlwind, like a fleet lightning steed. Manfully shalt thou clutch it by the mane, and vault into thy seat on it, and rule and guide there-thou! Wreck and ignominious overthrow, if thou have dared to seize it when the occasion was not thine; everlasting ruin to thee if thou dare not, when it is.

Carlyle, Life of Cromwell.

Two days have passed with that variety in their course to different men, which makes Time seem a fickle tyrant-swift to pass away when men are happy;-slow of foot when they are sad.

Two days! How many have been born into the world in that brief time;-how many have been married; and how many, young and old, have died! -What various scenes have crowded past the

eyes of

that vast cloud of Witnesses who look in wonder on the lives of men!-Here, incidents of joy too bright to last,-there fiercest wails, and wringings of the soul in agony; hope, abject disappointment; glory, honour-and above all, and beyond all, silence and repose at last.

Two days! An eternity to the shipwrecked seaman clinging to his spar,-alone,-upon the shoreless sea; -a moment to the bridegroom and his bride!-An age to weary sickness tossing on its couch;-a second to the bad old man who totters, and hangs back, and totters on, and knows that he is near his grave !— To-morrow seems far off to Misery; but it is close to Happiness, and Age!—

Two days!-how rapid to Geoffrey, as he gains new health with every breath ;-full of himself: full of his hopes at every thought of Alice :-full of delight at every word with her, and sign that he is loved!-What are two days to him?-over, as soon as they have dawned. He takes no note of Time, but from its loss!

How slow to Arthur!-As he sits alone in prison, grappling with old enemies under new forms,— desponding, and with sinking heart, the hours and moments crawl past wearily. But he will not despair!-No, no!-He struggles still. Let no brave