"I only want you to think-to take it into consideration, May. Don't, dear Childie-Mabel-my darling, what have I said? I meant to be gentle, but I'm a rough old soldier-I should have left it to Aunt Ellen." She was sobbing, and so bitterly, clinging to his arm again, and crying like as though her heart were breaking!

*

"Women are always so full of contradictions," pondered the Colonel, as he stood in the study window, his arms folded, a look of perplexity upon his face." She cried, I suppose, because she was pleased; women do that sort of thing; they're incomprehensible, perfectly incomprehensible." By the fast-fading light he could see the title of the book poor Mabel left upon the window-seat. It was a book strangely deep for a woman to care to dive into, but he remembered saying that the subject interested him only the evening before. "Poor little thing!" he muttered, as he placed it on the shelf again; "poor little May! so easily led by those she loves; God send he may be kind to her!" It was the prayer of an earnest heart.

The firelight flashed and gleamed, and threw fantastic shadows on the walls; the night grew dark without, and the tender silver crescent of the young moon grew distinct against the sky. Apparently the Colonel found that firelight was conducive to castle-building and strange unreal fancies; for he rang the bell sharply, and ordered the lamp to be brought in, and the curtains drawn; and his thoughts ran thus: "I'm an old fool, near forty, and dreaming like a boy! but there's an end to it now, and I have done well, right well to-night."

Ah me! how often, when we say to our own souls-and in our great pride of heart feel the words are true-how often, when we say "I have done well," the future is preparing for us a bitter repentance, and our guardian angel weeps, and cries-"Blind! blind!"

CHAP. II.

Brother-officers, close friends, and constant companions, William Thornton and Marmaduke Lane were quartered at Kurrachee, with the 00th, just twenty years before our story commences. Thrown even more together, in the limited society of an Indian station than they would have been at home, their friendship was drawn closer, and in it we must include Lane's young wife, a home-loving gentlewoman, for whom the gaiety and excitement of a military Indian life had little or no charm. She had sense enough to know (and as much cannot be said for every woman), that however fondly a man may love his wife and children, he needs companionship of his own sex; and instead of grudging Thornton the affection and friendship of her husband, like a wise and loving woman she shared in the interests and pursuits of both and if ever sunshine was cast over a household

by a true woman, it was Mabel Lane who was so blessing and so blessed. Perhaps "Mabel the younger" assisted somwhat; but at the time we speak of, her age numbering months instead of years, this share in the general weal was, like herself, but small. Like many other married officers young in the service, Lieutenant Lane had had his share of pecuniary anxieties, and at last, unexpectedly, the news came that an uncle had died, and left twenty thousand pounds to be claimed by the nearest of kin, which happened to be no other than his nephew Marmaduke. But this good fortune brought no gladness, for, stricken by a deadly fever, poor Mabel, the faithful helpmeet, lay gasping out her life; and without her what joy could there be on earth?

Scarcely was she laid in her last resting-place when Marmaduke himself fell ill, and, in spite of more than a brother's care from Thornton, quickly sank. Poor little Mabel, motherless and fatherless, alone in a foreign land, yet found kindly hands to nurse her. In the care of a serjeant's wife, she was sent to England, and, a tiny toddling thing, arrived at Beechwood, to the astonishment and dismay of Miss Ellen Thornton, some years older than her brother the Captain, and just settling down into ancient maidenhood. But her brother's word was always law. William was perfection in his sister's eyes, and so Miss Mabel was ere long comfortably established in her guardian's home, and, whenever he could come on leave, she teased and tormented him as children will, but each absence changed her more and more, and at last, on retiring from the service, it struck Col. Thornton that his ward was a young lady, not a child-and a young lady immeasurably superior to her sex in general. They were all very happy at Beechwood. Aunt Ellen was simply the cheeriest, most lovable old lady imaginable, with a heart as warm and true as ever beat in a human breast, and full of quaint sayings and doings. The good oldfashioned word of "gentle-woman' "seemed made to describe her; and Mabel could have had no better companion-or, rather, mother; for she always spoke of her as our child." It was a peaceful home-life they led; but Mabel's beauty, and her twenty thousand pounds, could not remain in such peaceful obscurity for ever. The "county families" made much of the heiress; but young Stanley, whose father owned the large property adjoining Beechwood, was the first suitor who "came a wooing" in real earnest. Aunt Ellen was quite in a flutter when her brother told her of the fact; and, after Arthur's visit, when all seemed settled to everyone's satisfaction, and the " engagement" a tangible affair, with gentle womanly sympathy she longed to gain the girl's full confidence; but Mabel was strangely reserved, and her spirits varied marvellously. One day she would be the very spirit of fun and frolic, the next pensive and silent as a young Medora. Often and often did the Colonel reiterate to himself the conclusion he had come to long ago, namely,

But we must say something about Arthur Stanley, the man into whose hands this wayward, but most lovable nature was to be entrusted whether for weal or woe the future alone would tell. People were wont to describe him as "aristocratic," "refined," &c.; very young ladies called him "interesting." He certainly had a look of all three qualifications. I should have admired him more if his eyes had not been set quite so near together, and if he had been able to express an honest downright opinion, and not always "cut and carved" his ideas to suit his company. However, Arthur Stanley was a wonderfully popular young manno one could dispute that-and apparently most devoted to his "faire ladie" Miss Mabel Lane. She was exacting, too, the spoilt child! and so variable that occasionally he felt perplexed; but when she saw this, May grew penitent, and looked bewitchingly subdued and gentle. The marriage was fixed for September, and though Aunt Ellen almost always had a suspiciously tearful appearance about the eyes, she assured everybody how delighted she was at the prospects of their dear child. Mabel's new home was to be in London. Nature-loving Mabel was to be a fine lady, with a house in May Fair, and a French maid to dress the golden-brown hair!

66

Col. Thornton was very busy with some abstruse reading just at this time: he said, WOmen were best left to themselves when preparing wedding-finery;" and apparently his ward agreed with him, for seldom now was the pretty head seen in the favourite window. He had not known until he lost it what Mabel's companionship had been to him. The graceful thoughts; the clear, true, intellect-all came to him, realized now in its utmost value; but even among all her new ties and pleasures, she did not quite forget him. The ferns and flowers were as carefully and tastefully arranged upon his writing table as ever. He had a strange tenderness for that vase of ferns and flowers, this middleaged Colonel, past the age of romance and sentiment !

As the important day came near, there was much signing of papers, and many meetings "on business," in the Beechwood study. Mabel's fortune was secured to herself, and the children she might have. All these matters were arranged with little reference to her, as she was unwilling to hear anything about "horrid money," and persisted in saying she "knew nothing about it-Gardy knows-it must be all as Gardy likes."

Col. Thornton was satisfied with what he saw of the bridegroom-elect and pleased with his devotion to Mabel. Not once did a misgiving cross his mind as to the truth of the conclusion he had come to that night, when he had communed with himself, and said, "I have done well;" and yet a nameless sadness was pressing on him, heavily, heavily. Why should ife seem so blank, deprived of that one soure

young enough to be his daughter? What was that fierce, most bitter pang that stung him, when he saw some little tenderness on Arthur's part to his sweet ward? Was he a fool-a crazy dolt-a madman, that he should let such thoughts and feelings grow into life?

Sometimes he would rebuke himself that he had become cold and changed to Mabel of late, and try to renew the old sweet hours of interchange of thoughts; but Mabel would not have it so; some other pressing business always seemed to claim her; then he would think that it was only natural she should cast him aside now, when her young life was full of a new joy

ousness.

The long evenings of the coming winter rose up before him, a coming desolation-standing

out in sad inevitable contrast to those of the

past year. Aunt Ellen would bring her work to the study after dinner, and he would read and write, and think-what should he think of? Of the golden head that was wont to bend over his book, and ask eerie questions, with wistful loving eyes gazing up at him? Of sweet sounds made by little soft hands for his pleasure? The piano (that had no business at all in a study) was replete with ghosts of a past that could not come again, and ghosts of a future that was realized beforehand in all its lonesome silence. The music would be gone; the music of life would be lost, and yet, he would not have it otherwise-it could not have been otherwise. She would be very happy-she would never know-never, never know what it had cost him to part with her!

Beechwood had been a scene of general unrest It was the evening before the wedding. and excitement all day; the village itself was disturbed and agitated-Mabel had the sweet charm that wins the hearts of the poor. Many comforted the sick and sorrowing. All were a time her gentle sympathy had soothed and anxious to witness the "grand wedding," on the morrow. The school children one and all could to gather fresh flowers to scatter on the bride's hardly sleep for fear of not being up in time pathway.

66

Aunt Ellen, wearied out with "household cares" and hospitable responsibilities," in great anxiety as to everything going off well in the morning-in great grief at parting with the "child of her love" and altogether in a state of general nervous agitation, had retired to her room, and taken some "camphor drops," in the vain hope of regaining her usual composure, and getting a good night's restSeated before the fire, in a most venerable armchair (and abstractedly crimping the frill of her strange and pondrous head-gear previous to putting it on), she was startled by a small white figure gliding silently into the room, and there stood Mabel, her hair floating over her shoul

ders, all her finery of the evening replaced by a muslin dressing-gown.

"My dear child!" began the old lady with uplifted hands, "I thought you were in bed and fast asleep an hour ago-I did indeed. This is very thoughtless-very wrong. Dear me! your hands are quite cold! sit down, child, and warm them at the fire. Will you have some camphor drops?-just six-not more. You are trembling all over; why your hair is wet! Mabel, where have you been?" The girl was crouching down beside her knee, not crying or sobbing, but shivering and trembling like an aspen leaf in the breeze, her face white and drawn as if from physical pain.

"You have been so good to me, dear auntie, all these years-I wanted to tell you how well I know how good and tender you have been. Now that I am going away, away for always, it comes to me so keenly-the sense of all your love and care."

Any possibility of reply on Aunt Ellen's part was rendered hopeless by a silent flow of tears, but tender stroking of the little cold hands said more than words. Mabel was looking dreamily into the fire; she shed no tears, only she had such a weary, weary look, unlike herself.

"You'll miss me, Aunt Ellen, I know. Perhaps Gardy will a little, too-I think he will. I was out in the garden just now, and saw him through the study window; his face was turned away from me; but he was not reading; he was only thinking-thinking perhaps of me, his little Mabel! Will you tell him," she went on with passionate earnestness, "will you tell him how I grieved to leave him-how I thank him now --now that I am going-for all his kindness to me ever since I was a little helpless child?"

They sat talking far into the night; many a kindly word of counsel Aunt Ellen gave to the girl on the threshold of a new and unknown life. Nothing but the fact of her mind being full of longings and prayers for her darling's happiness prevented her thinking of the child's untimely garden walk, on a night both damp and chill

*

But in spite of the evening's rain, Mabel's wedding-morn dawned bright and fair. An

unusual stir was early to be perceived in the village; carriages drove up the Beechwood avenue; the bell-ringers were already at their post in the old church tower, one more assiduous than the rest making occasional false starts, to the intense indignation of the leader. Col. Thornton was in his study, alone, quiet, and calm, but paler than usual, waiting his summons to bring Mabel down, for carriage after carriage had departed, filled with gaily attired ladies, and gentlemen in white waistcoats and delicately-tinted ties. A gentle knock at the door, and there, when he opened it, stood his ward-soon to be his no longer. Exquisitely fair looked Mabel in her bridal white; her veil thrown back from her face, her hair wreathed with orange-blossom and roses.

When

He drew her silently into the room. he was sure his voice would not falter, and not till then, he spoke-"You are very lovely to-day, childie, and happy too, Mabel; tell me -you have no misgiving?" Her hands felt icy cold, her lips quivered, but she did not speak. He dreaded his own feelings, mistrusted his own strength. It was time the interview came to an end. "We must go-they will be waiting-shall I put your veil down?"-But she put up her hands to prevent him. "Kiss me, Gardy, O kiss me; I came here now to say good-bye. I am going away-going away Her voice broke into a sob; she put up her face for him to kiss-and he kissed her, as her father might have done, and then gently lowered the long white veil, and led her silently away.

*

Ellen," said Col. Thornton that night when they returned from the gay ball given in honour of their son's marriage by Mr. and Mrs. Stanley, "should you like to go with me to Italy for the winter?" She stood amazed, but never dreamt of remonstrating-whatever "William" did was, (of course) right. If he had suggested Kamschatka as a place of residence she would equally have acquiesced.

Col. Thornton was a brave man, and had proved himself a brave soldier; but he could not face the lonesomeness of Beechwood without his ward-not yet. Q.Q.

(To be continued.)

ROMANCE

Much curiosity has been excited of late, in Hampshire and the surrounding counties, by the advent of a man who claims to be Sir Roger Titchborne, the elder brother of the late baronet, and who has been mourned as dead for the last twelve years, having, as it was supposed, perished by shipwreck. The estates are at present vested in an infant, the posthumous son of Sir Alfred Titchborne. So strong an interest has been excited by the romantic cir

REALITY.

cumstances of the case, that we think a slight historical sketch of the family will not be out of place.

The Titchburne family is of Saxon origin; the first mention of them in English history is in the time of Henry II., where Roger de Titchburne fought under Fitzstephens, when he and his sixty followers invaded Ireland. After the war in Normandy was at an end, King Henry presented Roger with the lands and lordship of

Over the river they beckon to me

Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side; The gleam of their snowy robes I see,

But their voices are drowned in the rushing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,

And eyes, the reflection of heaven's own blue; He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view;
We saw not the angels who met him there;
The gates of the city we could not see:
Over the river, over the river,

My brother stands waiting to welcome me!

Over the river the boatman pale

Carried another-the household pot; Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale→→→ Darling Minnie! I see her yet.

She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, And fearlessly entered the phantom bark; We watched it glide from the silver sands,

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. We know she is safe on the farther side, Where all the ransomed and angels be: Over the river, the mystic river,

My childhood's idol is waiting for me.

For none return from those quiet shores
Who cross with the boatman pale;

We hear the dip of the golden oars,

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail

And lo! they have passed from our yearning heart; They cross the stream, and are gone for aye;

We may not sunder the veil apart,

That hides from our vision the gates of day.
We only know that their barks no more

May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea;
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,
They watch and beckon and wait for me.

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold
Is flushing river and hill and shore,
shall one day stand by the water cold,
And list for the sound of the boatman's oar.

I envy, love, the breeze that plays
Amid thy soft and glossy hair;
And that in turn I envy too,

It clings so round thy forehead fair. I envy, love, the lashes dark

That shade thine eyes' delicious blue, Bending, with tenderness, to kiss

Thy cheek of opening rose-bud hue.

And, jealous grown, the simplest flower That wins thy gentle glance from me Seems ever hateful from that hour,

For, ah! I would be all to thee! Nay, shrink not so, my timid love; I will deny what now I said: Yon sky would lose its light for me Did it not canopy thy head.

I listen for thy footsteps light

When none but me the sound can hear, And feel my eyes, my heart grow bright, When they approach and thou art near. I listen to some simple tale

From thy sweet lips of love and truth, And watch thy cheek grow bright or pale With youth's sweet sympathy with youth.

I watch those silken ringlets fall
Across thy brow with golden glow,
And in my doting fancy call

Them sunbeams resting upon snow;
And gazing thus into thine eyes,
I hold this little hand in mine,
Where, as it softly nestling lies,

I hear thee murmuring "Only thine!"

And wish myself the air you breathe,
That I might seek thy very heart;
And with thy being so enwreathe
I only could with life depart.

I wish I could to thee be all

The earth!-the very heaven above!

I wish-nay, I cannot recall

One more while thou art nigh, dear love!