running along them stretched and knotty; the circumvolutions of his brain, which was soft and watery, appeared twice as deep as usual, and much more numerous. The skull throughout was very compact, and about half an inch thick. They relate that phrenologists offered a considerable sum to the sexton's wife, for his head; which, however, she nobly refused.

On the 10th of August, 1845, eighteen years after his death, a great festival was held in the city of bis birth, to do honour to his genius and erect a statue to his memory. On this occasion the Queen of England and her husband, himself a German, the King of Prussia, the nobility of the principal states of Europe, and nearly all the artistic talent of the day, assembled in that city to render fitting homage to his name. Concerts were given, at which Beethoven's music was played, under the superintendence of Lizst and Spohr; banquets were got up; streets, houses, and canals were illuminated; soirées were given impromptu; bands of music paraded the town, and nothing could exceed the joy and enthusiasm of the assembled multitudes. In the midst of all this the statue of Beethoven, the great German composer, was inaugurated.

Need anything more be said? Yes, a few words. The greatness of the genius of Beethoven was then, is now, and will for ever be, universally acknowledged. He is confessedly the most distinguished musician of his age or country; and for the most striking originality, the most creative genius, the most vivid imagination, and the most fertile invention, Beethoven stands unrivalled. The romance of his own noble river, and the wild, fearless, beautiful, enthusiastic, generous, noble features of German nationality are found pervading the strains so often heard and so well known in every country in Europe.

Graze a moment on his features!

Are there not

mind and genius stamped indelibly upon them?

The majesty of Mind was throned

Before the human race

As in a cloud!-they could but see

Its solemn resting-place!

But far above them rose

The image of the King,

Who built his palace in the Soul,

And heard its angels sing!

So genius wins its meed!

The love of all its kind,

The homage of a nation's heart,

The poetry of mind!

The pride of monarchs' thrones,

Who sees its trophy won,

And bow while all their people crown
Its glory in the sun!

Born of the people, singing ever from his inmost heart of God's glory and theirs, the genius of Beethoven is a noble type of the deep mind-lore ever surging upward from the great sea of the unknown!

THE WILDING FLOWER.

Yes, lady, yes!-the flower you prize
Without the garden's culture grew;
No flattering gaze of fostering eyes
O'erwatched its draught of morning dew.
So rude the place it called its bed,

You scarce had deigned to wander thereNo smooth-shorn turf to tempt the tread, No fountain fresh, no rich parterre:

But cold bleak rocks on every side,

Where blustering winds exert their force; And one black stream, whose boisterous tide Rolled on with murmurs deep and hoarse.

No welcome tree, with outstretched boughs,
Gave shelter from the biting blast;
But darksome caves, and sunken sloughs
Beneath a low sky overcast.

Yet strong the hardy youngling grew,

Though nursed not by the hand of art,
Fed by the simple morning dew,

There in the waste land's wildest part:
Nor grown, nor plucked, nor prized in vain
If, lady, thou the gift receive;
And with the flower consent to gain
The healthful truth it aims to give.
Nature all aid of art disdains,

And vindicates her power divine
When thus, on rude and rugged plains,
She makes her fairest offspring shine;
Nor is there in the world so wide,

Search where thou wilt, a single spot,
Whate'er the garden's boastful pride,
In Nature's love remembered not.

The storm may beat, the lightning rend,
Yet, 'midst their very stir and strife,
If that her power kind Nature lend,
The rock-born flower may spring to life:
As, in the painter's battle-scene,*

Beside the blaze, her charm bestows
Of youthful red and healthful green,
A simple solitary rose.

And, lady, learn a deeper truth

No heart throughout creation beats,
Of hardened age or erring youth,
But deep within its close retreats,
In still seclusion, haply lie

Fair germs of many a gentle flower:
That lack but fostering sympathy
To spring the bright ones of the hour.

It was an erring sister's hand,

The dying youth relieved, sustained-
Held back life's well-nigh ebbing sand,
When scarce the power of life remained-
Shut self from sight, and gave its all,
While virtue passed uncaring by :+
Angels forgot her woman's fall

That marked her woman's charity!

Ah, lady, lady! happy thou,

Whose blessed youth no stain hath known.

The tablet of whose virgin brow

God's love hath marked for virtue's own!

Whose gentle bosom hour by hour
His watchful angels keep with care;
Warming to life each wakening flower,
That each may blossom kindly there.
Scorn not thy fallen sister's heart,

Whose rocky soil, whose bitter clime-
Like yonder waste land's wildest part,

Cold e'en in summer's fostering primeSeems desert all. One seed may still,

Nursed in some sympathetic hour,
Spring up from that ungentle well

As fair as this-thy Wilding Flower!
CHARLES H. HITCHINGS.

Landseer's "Time of War."

+ See De Quincey's "Confessions of an English Opium-eater."

"On, nurse, what tiresome things holidays are! I wish mine were over; for even my lessons with good, stupid Mr. Lumley afforded me better amusement than being left alone all day. I only wish I were a fisherman's daughter, and then I should, at least, have something to do, and some one to talk to."

"Oh, fie, Miss Mowbray," replied staid Mrs. Watkins; "I am quite ashamed to hear you run on so. I'm sure my lady has provided everything that could be thought of for your amusement; only you are never satisfied. Come, do not look so sad, but tell me what you would like best to do. There is your new box of colours, and the gardener has cut that gay purple flower for you, that you admired so much yesterday, ready for you to begin your painting. Or will you have your guitar, and try over the new music which came from London last week, or shall we take a walk along

the shore ?"

"I am tired of everything, and that is the truth of it," returned Kate Mowbray with a heavy sigh for one whose years did not exceed sixteen. "But the idea of the sea tempts me the most; so let us make haste and walk down to the rocks, before the tide turns."

Mrs. Watkins assented; and having dressed her young lady, they proceeded to the sands, where the high waves dashing over the ledges of rocky shore as the tide came up, served to while away an hour tolerably quickly; but after the tide had turned, and the impetuous waters had become more placid, Kate Mowbray again grew weary; and when a call from the house summoned her nurse within doors, she resolutely refused to return with her, and said she should prefer remaining by herself on the shore. "It will be a change," she thought, "to be without Mrs. Watkins for a bit; but oh, dear, how can mama leave me here so long without any companions! If I had only a dog, it would be better company than no one; and it would be something to love, and that would love me." The last idea caused tears to start from her eyes; and, rousing herself with some effort, she began to look for a small delicate species of shell which she had often amused herself with stringing into necklaces and bracelets. Not finding many on the shore, she got into a boat which was lying empty and fastened to a stake in the ground. Here, while leaning over the edge, she was delighted to look at the many-coloured sea-weeds which, growing beneath the clear, shallow water, seemed to her imagination like a region of fairy-land; and, while thus engaged, the time passed rapidly and unheeded, until the rocking motion of the boat attracted her attention. She perceived the little vessel had broken loose, and was slowly floating out to sea. She was so startled when she perceived her situation, that she screamed loudly, and her cry was immediately answered by a youth leaping from a rock which jutted out some distance from the land, and on which he had been occupied in fishing, and who soon waded to her assistance. He arrived only just in time to save her, as the water touched his chin by the time he reached her; and he began to pull the boat back with considerable difficulty, while he told Kate how to help him by pushing at the stern by an oar, which, fortunately had been left by the owners. Alarm gave her energy, and she contrived to obey the youth's instructions; and in a few minutes had landed safely at the spot from which she had embarked. She then turned to thank her deliverera fine, manly fellow, rather taller than herself, and very plainly dressed; but whose language and manner made her feel that he proba

bly belonged to the same rank as herself, and ha-1 received a good education. He laughingly refused to go and change his wet dress; and taking up the shells which Kate Mowbray had collected, they were soon busily occupied in that delightful, because perfectly frank, interchange of every passing thoughat and feeling which, perhaps, later life seldom affords. They were interrupted at length by Mrs. Watkins and two other servants, who seemed equally surprised and pleased to find Miss Mowbray in safety; and it then appeared that the nurse had been to look for her charge, while Kate was in the boat; and not seeing her, had flown back in great alarm to inform the rest of the household and institute a thorough search for her. Very reluctantly did the young lady now prepare to accompany her to the house, after again repeating her thanks for the valuable assistance which she had received, and which she did the more warmly that her nurse, in terror for the consequences which might ensue to all parties were her lady ever to know that Miss Mowbray had passed so much time conversing with an unknown stranger, spoke to the youth in a haughty manner, which Kate thought equally unkind and unjust. But fear and hope had so quickened her apprehensions, that she managed to fix upon another meeting for the next day in a hasty whisper, to which a nod of intelligence was the only reply ventured.

The good nurse was not a little amazed when on their return she perceived the vivid impression that this incident had made upon Kate, who talked the whole evening of her adventure, and who had also learned that her companion's name was Henry Liddell; that his father was very poor, he believed, but he had not seen him for many years, and that he lived at the curate's house, who kept a boy's school in the adjoining village. At night, when Kate had retired to rest, Mrs. Watkins, after fidgeting about the room for some time, said,

"Unless my lady asks any questions, Miss Mowbray, I think it will hardly be necessary to tell her what has passed this afternoon; it might make her anxious, and then she would be displeased with me for having left you alone on the shore. Not that I wish the truth concealed if the should inquire particularly; only it seems to me you need not mention the accident unless she asks."

Oh, you need not be afraid, dear nurse; I never tell mama anything; and I hope no one will think of letting her know about Hen Liddell, or else I should never see him again. Besides, if she should be angry with you, you can casily tell her it was my doing, and that I commanded you to leave me alone."

Partly satisfied, Mrs. Watkins went down to her hot supper with the housekeeper, to whom she related her fears, and her resolution to watch carefully that no further intercourse should take place between Miss Mowbray and young Liddell, who she believed was only some farmer's son. But the nurse did not find it so easy as she expected to fulfil her intentions; her movements were naturally slow, and her size unwieldy, and a lively girl like Kate, who had set her mind upon attaining a particular object, was not likely to fail in succeeding, when, as in this case, she gave all her mind to the task. The following evening tea had been served to the solitary young heiress, and leaving her to practice her appointed hour on the piano, Mrs. Watkins, as usual, descended to her own meal; thus offering too tempting an opportunity for Kate not to embrace it at once; and flying to her bed-room, she hastily dressed herself for the first time unassisted, and then noiselessly slipped out of the house.

Henry Liddell was at the appointed place before her; but this time he had brought no fishing apparatus, and producing a much-worn yet well-preserved copy of Shakspere from his pocket, he asked Kate, when they

had once more talked over their meeting of the day before, whether she had ever read "The Tempest." To Kate the great master's works had hitherto beer a sealed book, and she eagerly looked over Henry's shoulder as he opened his favourite play, and at her request commenced reading it aloud.

Mach too swiftly and too happily the time fled by, and the apparition of Mrs. Watkins in the distance, coming towards them, and the consciousness that she would probably take effectual precautions against her escaping a second time as she had done that evening, roused Kate to arrange some other plan before their enemy could come up to them. An old summer-house in a garden which opened from the back of the house, and away from the sea shore, was fixed upon; and Henry made his escape before panting, puffing Mrs. Watkins reached her charge. A severe lecture, and threats of informing Lady Mowbray followed, to which Kate returned no answer; and her nurse construing her anusual silence as a favourable omen of penitence for the fault Kate had committed, said no more after they had regained the house. But Kate, although she did not feel quite sure whether she was acting rightly, could not so soon give up the newly tasted and long desired pleasures of friendship; and having, as she said, no one to care about, she thought all the more constantly of the companion whom chance had thrown in her way; whose lonely situation in so many respects resembled her own, and whose attractions were manifold to one so isolated and neglected.

With such adroitness did the two young people conduct their interviews, that nearly a year glided on without Mrs. Watkins having once detected them in the act, although Kate's animation, constant cheerfulness, and unaccountable fondness for the little deserted garden, besides the occasional sound of strange voices, not unfrequently rendered her suspicious. Kate never answered any questions on the subject, and, laughing, parried them as well as she could; while happiness such as she had never known before brightened her solitary existence, and gave a charm to the pursuits of which she had formerly been so tired.

Now every

new song had become to her a positive pleasure, in the prospect of singing it to Henry; her drawings too had benefited by his remarks, for in this art he was himself a proficient. Her flowers were sedulously tended, as giving her the means of presenting them to him as tokens of remembrance; while they mutually interchanged the books they most loved, and Kate's mind derived great service from Henry's more matured eriticisms, and the power she gradually acquired from him of reflecting upon all she read or observed.

Once in every two years Lady Mowbray was accustomed to pay a visit to her daughter, in order to inspect her progress, and make such changes in the mode of her studies as her advancing age rendered necessary; and, early in June, exactly twelve months since Kate and Henry had first met, she arrived as usual, without any previous notice to Mrs. Watkins, and desired her to summon Kate to her presence.

With a foreboding heart, though she did not know any cause for the feeling, Mrs. Watkins went into the garden to seek her charge, and her apprehensions were not lessened by the glimpse she caught of some one disappearing behind the trees which sheltered the summer-house: her fears were increased when a spaniel dog bounded towards her, and then darted off in obedience to a whistle from its owner, who was evidently close at hand. Kate, however, was alone, and apparently deeply engaged with a book, when her nurse appeared; and on hearing of Lady Mowbray's arrival, started up and fled to the house, utterly disregarding Mrs. Watkins' calls, who was in consternation at the idea of her appearing before her lady in her morning dress and with disordered curls.

"Lack-a-day! what has come over her? As sure as fate, my lady will see how she is changed, and it's beyond my comprehension what has brought it about; and then to think of her rushing into her ladyship's presence in that unseemly fashion! I trow mischief will come of it." This soliloquy concluded, Mrs. Watkins left the garden, and anxiously waited until Lady Mowbray should summon her to give an account of her stewardship.

In the meantime, Kate, glowing with happiness, and forgetting her usual awe of her stately mother, fled into the parlour, and flinging her arms around Lady Mowbray, exclaimed, "Oh, mama, how glad I am you are come at last!" But no answering warmth responded to her caress; drawing herself up, her mother coldly kissed her child's forehead, and then, in a calm chilling tone, which instantly restored Kate's self-possession, she said, "You are somewhat too old now, Kate, to enter an apartment so wildly; I fear me Mrs. Watkins has become too indulgent; the time is arrived when a stricter discipline must be adopted. Sit down, and tell me what progress you have made in Latin, French, and English history since my last visit." It would occupy too much space to detail the conversation which ensued, and which soon convinced Lady Mowbray that it was high time to superintend her daughter's education more closely, if she meant her to grow up as implicitly obedient to her will and pleasure as her numerous family and political schemes rendered necessary. The mother and daughter would have formed a strange contrast had their interview been represented in a picture. The features of the former were handsome, strongly marked, and expressive of decision and worldly-mindedness, and betrayed the fact that she had gone through much mental though suppressed suffering. Her manners were stern and dignified, and repelled confidence; while at the same time few would have had courage to withhold anything which she sought to know. Kate, on the other hand, expressed in her young bright face those ingenuous, affectionate feelings, which only needed the fostering of parental encouragement to bloom into all a woman's devoted attachment for those dear to her; and one kind word from her mother would have unlocked a fountain of the sweetest youthful trust, and all her little hoard of cherished hopes and loving fancies been laid bare to Lady Mowbray, who would have given much to attain such an intimate knowledge of her daughter's feelings, had she known how to set about it.

When dismissed by her mother, Kate hastened to the garden, too well aware from what had passed that it would probably be her last opportunity of speaking to Henry Liddell for a long time to come; and, having heard Lady Mowbray call Mrs. Watkins, she ran as fast as she could to the dear old summer-house. No one was there; and, bursting into tears, she began to fear she should have to leave the country without a word of farewell to the person she loved better than any one else in the world: so bitter was this reflection that she took the desperate step of venturing out into the lane which led to the church, and in which she had never walked without her nurse. To her great delight she there perceived Henry's dog, which they had christened Ariel; and, calling him to her, had the satisfaction of soon seeing his master jump over a style and hasten towards her. His surprise at seeing her, and his consternation at the news she communicated, agitated her still more; and then for the first time Henry spoke of his own feelings for her, and in all the simplicity of boyhood entreated her to promise she would one day become his wife, for then no one could prevent their union when he should be a rich man. Very bright and very charming did this romance appear to Kate; and she thought she could easily bear the hardship of separation, and all the future

teaching of which her lady mother had spoken, now that she knew what Henry felt, and could look forward with certainty to the prospect of seeing him again. Still, the time that had passed over since their first meeting had made her feel less a girl in many ways; and a sentiment of shyness such as she had never experienced before caused her to hesitate to give the promise which Henry asked. Some one shouting her name repeatedly, awakened her to the necessity of their instant separation; and she would have fled without saying anything had not her companion seized her by by the hand, and exclaimed, "Oh, Kate! you will not make me so miserable as not to tell me whether you care for me, and will promise you will one day be mine, before we part?"

In a scarcely audible whisper she gave the desired assurance; and Henry ventured to kiss her before she ran away, in great fear of being caught.

Mrs. Watkins awaited her in the garden, and told her that she should certainly inform Lady Mowbray of all she had such good reason to suspect, had not her ladyship told her they were to set out on the following day for Craven Castle, where Miss Mowbray would no longer be allowed to play her mad pranks, and behave just as she liked, without any regard to what persons wiser than herself advised.

Poor Kate's tears fell fast; and her nurse, feeling some little compassion for her grief at leaving the only home she had ever known, grew softer in her manner; and the lonely creature clung to her the whole of that long evening, in preference to seeking her mother's grave, forbidding society. Lady Mowbray was too penetrating not to be aware that Kate's advancement had been more rapid both mentally and physically than her age warranted; but she deemed it wiser to say nothing at this time, and relied with perfect confidence on the system of instruction and supervision which she intended should be carried out for her daughter's benefit when she should be placed more immediately under her own eye.

Three years elapsed before Kate Mowbray and Henry Liddell met again; three years which were passed by the young heiress in the solitude of Craven Castle, under the supervision of various masters, and the superintendence of a duenna, whose strictness made her frequently regret the gentler sway of Mrs. Watkins. But vainly did Lady Mowbray endeavour to instil into her daughter's mind the worldly notions and ambitious desires for increased power and wealth which distinguished herself; frank and ingenuous in character, simple in tastes, affectionate and generous in her disposition, no schooling could ever have rendered Kate otherwise than sincere, joyous, and disinterested.

Her capacity for loving during this long interval was fed by the secret consciousness that Henry would never forget or forsake her; and she clung to his image so fondly, and thought of him so constantly, that every object became invested with associa tions which centred around their mutual attachment. Without such a precious source of consolation, one so sensitive and so dependent upon affection must either have sunk under the cold, harsh discipline to which she was subjected, or else have become a stern, reserved, morose character. But love enlarges the soul, and sheds over it a vivyfying and strengthening warmth, which nothing else can supply, and fills it to the exclusion of unworthy or injurious thoughts, when, as in this case, it is founded upon single-hearted, disinterested regard. Once only, when the three years had nearly expired, did she receive a letter from her absent lover; and it was delivered to her by a messenger who gave it into her own hands, when she was one evening wandering alone by the banks of a trout stream, which tan through the park.

At first she did not guess whence it came, and, sup

posing it to be some petition, had almost reached the castle in order to consult her governess about it, when the scal caught her attention, and suggested ideas which made her hastily tear open the enclosure, and retreat to a little grove where she felt secure of not being seen. Two large, well-filled folio sheets-for in those days penny posts and notes were not created-tben greeted her, and turning to the top of the first she read as follows:

Ano

"London, May 27th, 1740.-Never before, my beloved Kate, since we parted in the lane behind the summer-house, have I had an opportunity of writing and sending a letter to you which I knew could be delivered privately. Now, I hardly know how to address you; for when I remember where and with whom you have been living for three long, long years, dreadful fears come into my mind that you may no longer care about Henry Liddell; that you have perhaps even forgotten his name; and that you will blame his boldness in presuming to write to one so far removed from him-in all that the world holds worthy of estimation. But there are other times, when I look on the precious flowers, gathered by your own hand, and given to me as a token of regard from your own dear self; and when I recal your sweet promise that you would one day be mine, that I cannot and will not believe that you can be changed, or have broken the pledge so solemnly given to one who loves you more dearly than father or mother, or the whole world besides. Yet there are other thoughts which also disturb this fancied security: one is, whether, if you still feel towards me as formerly, I should be justified in claiming your promise made when you were too young to comprehend its importance; and whether I am not asking too much when I entreat you to give up rank, wealth, and family to descend to my lowly sphere of life, where all I have to offer for your acceptance is one poor but devoted heart, which will beat for you alono through weal and woe until death shall part us. ther consideration also alarms me. How far will the claims of others upon your duty and obedience affect me? A parent's rights are sacred; and I cannot expect Lady Mowbray should ever consent to bestow her peerless daughter upon a penniless, homeless, unknown adventurer; and then, if she forbids our union, how can you disregard her commands? Oh! Kate, Kate, these reflections drive me almost out of my senses; and were 1 sure that you had forgotten me -a knowledge which would and must inevitably render me miserable for life-I hope I should not be so selfish as to trouble your peace. But I do not, thank heaven, know that such wretchedness awaits me; and if, my beloved one, you still retain your esteem and friendship for me, I should not be acting rightly were I to remain silent. I beseech you, if it be possible, let me hear soon what are your present feelings. Until I do, I seem stretched on the rack; and before closing my letter I will give you directions where a letter will find me. Should you send no reply, I shall of course conclude that the worst has happened, and that we shall never meet again. The agitation I experience at this idea, and at this moment, is terrible; and I must leave off writing until to-morrow, when I must endeavour to be calm, and give you some account of how my time has been spent since we parted, and of my present prospects. Will you care to read it? Oh! by the religion of our love, I conjure you to think favourably of my suit, and to grant me at least some hope that you will hear me plead my cause in person before you utterly reject me!

"May 28th.-Not many days after the sad one which witnessed your departure, Mr. Crutchley (our curate), told me that a messenger from my father had arrived, and wished to see me immediately. In great astonishment, and with a heart wildly beating in expectation that I might now hear the secret of my birth and

parentage, I hastened to him, and was introduced to a gentleman of noble aspect, and commanding manners, which were, however, gentle as well as dignified. Without giving me any information, he proceeded to ask me numerous questions relating to my studies and attainments; nor did he seem satisfied until he had obtained a thorough knowledge of my tastes and pursuits, and even of my amusements in my leisure hours. To my great surprise he had heard of our adventure in the boat, and questioned me closely as to our after intercourse. I said as little as I could upon this subject; but he has the art of extracting from others all he wishes to know, and I found it impossible to conceal anything from him. When our dialogue seemed brought to a conclusion, I ventured to ask about my father, but could obtain no satisfaction respecting him, and was only told he wished me to travel abroad with the earl of Whitehaven, as private secretary. My astonishment was great, indeed, at these tidings; and my regret not much less when I learned that we were to set out that very evening for the metropolis, without time being allowed for a parting visit to the many dear scenes hallowed by sweet remembrances of my fondly loved Kate. I soon understood from Mr. Crutchley that my examiner was the earl of Whitehaven, who had wished to satisfy himself regarding my qualifications for the proposed situation of his secretary; and he also informed me that the earl had expressed himself pleased with my acquirements and readiness. Two hours later I took leave of my schoolfellows and of my kind master, and started with my patron in a coach and six, accompanied by four outriders. The earl did not speak much; but I cannot describe the fascination of his manners, and occasional remarks, nor do I know how to account for the singular influence he at once exercised over me. By the time we reached London, a journey of three days, I felt bound to him hand and foot, and as much afraid of displeasing him, as I should have felt of incurring blame from yourself.

"Of our journey abroad I cannot now tell you. We met with many adventures, in some of which I had the good fortune to distinguish myself, and the inexpressible pleasure on one occasion of saving the earl's life. He was a strict master, and I worked hard while under his charge; but he never failed to afford me time for seeing everything curious or beautiful in our route, and directed my private reading with sedulous care. At Rome, and at Berlin and Paris, where we successively stayed a considerable time, my admiration for his talents and respect for his virtues increased with every transaction in which we were engaged. He was so honourable in all his dealings, and trusted so much to the fidelity of others, thereby securing the most faithful and devoted attention in his service; while his opinion was courted and his advice sought for by high and low, rich and poor, wherever we went.

After eighteen months thus spent, we returned to London; and I am now residing in the humble abode of one of the most devoted of our Stuart adherents; where I spend my time in writing and copying papers, chiefly in cypher, relating to the great cause. I have not seen the earl for at least five months, and my situation here would be insupportably tedious were it not for the hope of liberation before long, and the still dearer hope of hearing from you. I am not permitted to show myself in the streets, but take my solitary exercise in a small back garden; where I should be as much out of the world as we used to feel in Devonshire, were it not for the power I possess of climbing to the top of our out-door office, which commands a view of one of the most crowded thoroughfares, and of a perfect wilderness of houses. How I long for a sight of the open sea, and fresh fields, you will easily imagine; though I would still more willingly remain in

London, if I were only allowed to enter the army, or commence some honourable course to earn a livelihood and render myself more worthy of the great honour to which I aspire. You will wonder (if, indeed, you still retain any interest in your devoted friend) when this mode of life is to end; and all I can tell you is, that I am fully twenty years of age, and that the earl has promised to inform me of everything relating to my parents and my own future destiny, when I am twentyone. He, or some one in power, is, I am told, sending off this evening an express, with news from St. Germains, I believe, to Craven Castle; and I have bribed the messenger to deliver this safely when you are alone. He will probably leave the North in two days after you receive my letter; and once more implore you, by all that we hold most sacred, in this world or the world to come, that you will let me hear from you. A rose, or a leaf from your myrtle, if you can send no written message, will give me some cause to hope. The messenger is just come in, and he says he must set out immediately; he cannot delay a moment longer, and so I must conclude abruptly-Oh, Kate, have pity on your ever attached and faithful HENRY LIDDELL."

No words can describe the successive emotions of wonder, expectation, and delight with which Kate read this long letter, mingled with sensations of surprise and displeasure that Henry should ever have doubted the continuance of her attachment. Lost in a delicious reverie, she remained a long time in the same position, sometimes re-perusing the letter, then speaking aloud in the earnestness of her feelings; but oftener silent and absorbed, in a deep thankful sense of unexpected, overpowering happiness.

The tolling of the castle bell for evening prayers then made her start up and hasten to the chapel, one moment frightened to think of the reproofs which probably awaited her, and the next insensibly walking more slowly, as her thoughts returned to Henry's letter. She met her mother in the hall, followed by a train of obsequious attendants, and saw that Lady Mowbray gazed at her with displeasure, as she noted her daughter's fitful colour, and the unwonted animation of her countenance, glowing as it did with all the sensibility of a young girl when excited by the deepest and dearest emotions of which woman's heart is capable. Long and severe was the lecture to which Kate had to listen that evening, before she was dismissed to her own apartment. When there, she made many attempts to shorten the tedious business of her toilet, which was performed by her maid under the direction of her stiff governess; but these efforts to be released from what Miss Fortescue considered an important duty, met with neither sympathy nor indulgence; and the chimes of ten o'clock had rung out from the church tower ere her tormentors left her to repose.

By the light of the night lamps she had again addressed herself to the letter, when she was roused by something being thrown against her window. Springing out of bed, and throwing a cloak around her, she fearlessly opened the lattice, and to her astonishment saw a man in the act of again flinging a small stone at the casement. She was on the point of closing it and sending for assistance, when his quiet call of, "I entreat you to hear me for one moment, lady!" made her pause, while at the same moment she recognised the messenger who had delivered Henry's letter. longer afraid, she asked him when he would return? and whether he could take charge of a small parcel for the same person who had sent the letter?

64

No

Yes, lady," he replied. "It is for that purpose I am now here; but I trust the packet is ready prepared, for ten minutes hence I start for London."

"So soon!" she answered, almost inaudibly; and, snatching up the flowers she had that day worn, she