"Lady Amersham has gone out airing with the Marchioness of Uttoxeter in her pony phaton."

"The Lady Melicent ?"

"The Lady Melicent is at home."

"Then go and present to her this note," said I, seizing the writing materials that stood on the table, and writing the following words on a slip of paper.

"I am obliged instantly to depart—I wished to have seen Lord or Lady Amersham, but find it is impossible. Will Lady Melicent honour me with an interview of one moment, when I will endeavour to speak (for I cannot write) of the misfortune which has occasioned this singular request? -Cyril Thornton."

I was not long kept in suspense, for, in a minute or two after my note had been despatched, Lady Melicent entered the apartment.

"What is this, Mr. Thornton ?" said she, starting when she beheld the altered expression of my countenance; "what has happened to make you leave us so abruptly? Your father-your mother -your sisters, I hope, are well-no family misfor

"Yes, a sad one-I have received intelligence by a messenger, informing me that my mother is dying, and that instant departure affords my only chance of yet seeing her alive. I have taken the liberty of soliciting this interview, to request you will offer my sincere thanks to Lord and Lady Amersham for their kindness.-To you Lady Melicent, to you-pardon me, I am confused by this dreadful blow, and cannot say what I ought-think all I should feel, in bidding you farewell, and— believe I feel it."

She was moved, and there was moisture in her eyes, as she replied,

"I feel, I deeply feel for you," she said, holding out her hand at the same time, which was instantly pressed in mine." For my father and mother, as well as for myself, I may say, you carry with you our sympathy and best wishes for your happiness; and, as a relation,—I may also add”she here hesitated, and a slight flush rose to her cheek as she spoke,-" our kind remembrance and regard. On an occasion like this, I would not delay you an instant-Farewell, farewell."

The last word was spoken in so low a tone as to

be scarcely audible, and as she pronounced it, she half averted her head.

"Farewell!" I exclaimed, lingering on the word, and aware it must be the last; and raising her fingers, which she made no effort to withdraw to my lips, I rushed from the apartment, and in a moment after, felt myself whirled rapidly through the park on my return to Thornhill,

CHAPTER XVII.

The voices of my home! I hear them still!
They have been with me through the dreamy night,-
The blessed household voices, wont to fill

My heart's clear depths with unalloy'd delight!

I hear them still unchang'd,- though some from earth
Are music parted; and the tones of mirth,-

Wild silvery tones, that rang through days more bright,
Have died in others, yet to me they come,

Singing of boyhood back,-the voices of my home!
Forest Sanctuary.

WE travelled in silence. My grief could brook no communion, and my aged companion, worn out alike by the agitation of his spirits and the fatigues of his journey, sought in sleep, deep though interrupted, the refreshment necessary for his exhausted frame. I was pleased at this. The presence of a human eye seemed an intrusion on the sacredness of my sorrow, and I felt that solitude was freedom.

We journeyed with all the speed that money

could command. Day gradually faded into darkness, the long night-hours passed away, and the glorious sun was once more abroad in the firmament. But these changes passed unheeded. External nature was to me a blank-my eyes saw only the image of my dying mother-the sound of her sweet and feeble voice was in my ears-the hope of once more beholding her alive, of soothing her last moments by my presence, occupied and engrossed my heart.

We approached Thornhill in the evening of the following day, and I beheld once more the familiar objects of my youth. Under circumstances how sad and melancholy was I again restored to them!

As we passed through the adjacent village, I looked from the carriage, perhaps expecting to discover in the countenances and deportment of the inhabitants, traces of that sorrow and sympathy which the loss of so kind a benefactress might be expected to inspire. No change was discerniblethe business and the pleasures of humble life were proceeding as usual; the sound of revelry and merriment was heard from the little inn in the marketplace; groups of ragged urchins were at play; and the labourers, after the toils of the day, were sing