poor bruised child-the more so as they had an air of sisterly equality, which was quite new to her. Under Lady Cheverel's uncaressing authoritative good-will, Tina had always retained a certain constraint and awe; and there was a sweetness before unknown in having a young and gentle woman, like an elder sister, bending over her caressingly, and speaking in low loving tones.

Maynard was almost angry with himself for feeling happy while Tina's mind and body were still trembling on the verge of irrecoverable decline; but the new delight of acting as her guardian angel, of being with her every hour of the day, of devising everything for her comfort, of watching for a ray of returning interest in her eyes, was too absorbing to leave room for alarm or regret.

On the third day the carriage drove up to the door of Foxholm Parsonage, where the Rev. Arthur Heron presented himself on the doorstep, eager to greet his returning Lucy, and holding by the hand a broad-chested tawny-haired boy of five, who was smacking a miniature hunting-whip with great vigour.

Nowhere was there a lawn more smooth-shaven, walks better swept, or a porch more prettily festooned with creepers, than at Foxholm Parsonage, standing snugly sheltered by beeches and chestnuts half-way down the pretty green hill which was surmounted by the church, and overlooking a village that straggled at its ease among pastures and meadows, surrounded by wild hedgerows and broad shadowing trees, as yet unthreatened by improved methods of farming.

Brightly the fire shone in the great parlour, and brightly in the little pink bedroom, which was to be Caterina's, because it looked away from the churchyard, and on to a farm homestead, with its little cluster of beehive ricks, and placid groups of cows, and cheerful matin sounds of healthy labour. Mrs Heron, with the instinct of an impressionable woman, had written to her husband to have this room prepared for Caterina. Contented speckled hens, industriously scratching for the rarelyfound corn, may sometimes do more

In such a home as this parsonage, a nest of comfort, without any of the stateliness that would carry a suggestion of Cheverel Manor, Mr Gilfil was not unreasonable in hoping that Caterina might gradually shake off the haunting vision of the past, and recover from the languor and feebleness which were the physical sign of that vision's blighting presence. The next thing to be done was to arrange an exchange of duties with Mr Heron's curate, that Maynard might be constantly near Caterina, and. watch over her progress. She seemed to like him to be with her, to look uneasily for his return; and though she seldom spoke to him, she was most contented when he sat by her, and held her tiny hand in his large protecting grasp. But Oswald, alias Ozzy, the broad-chested boy, was perhaps her most beneficial companion. With something of his uncle's person, he had inherited also his uncle's early taste for a domestic menagerie, and was very imperative in demanding Tina's sympathy in the welfare of his guinea-pigs, squirrels, and dormice. With him she seemed now and then to have gleams of her childhood coming athwart the leaden clouds, and many hours of winter went by the more easily for being spent in Ozzy's nursery.

Mrs Heron was not musical, and had no instrument; but one of Mr Gilfil's cares was to procure a harpsichord, and have it placed in the drawing-room, always open, in the hope that some day the spirit of music would be reawakened in Caterina, and she would be attracted towards the instrument. But the winter was almost gone by, and he had waited in vain. The utmost improvement in Tina had not gone beyond passiveness and acquiescence -a quiet grateful smile, compliance with Oswald's whims, and an increasing consciousness of what was being said and done around her. Sometimes she would take up a bit of

woman's work, but she seemed too languid to persevere in it; her fingers soon dropped, and she relapsed into motionless reverie.

At last it was one of those bright days in the end of February, when the sun is shining with a promise of approaching spring. Maynard had been walking with her and Oswald round the garden to look at the snowdrops, and she was resting on the sofa after the walk. Ozzy, roaming about the room in quest of a forbidden pleasure, came to the harpsichord, and struck the handle of his whip on a deep bass note.

The vibration rushed through Caterina like an electric shock; it seemed as if at that instant a new soul were entering into her, and filling her with a deeper, more significant life. She looked round, rose from the sofa, and walked to the harpsichord. In a moment her fingers were wandering with their old sweet method among the keys, and her soul was floating in its true familiar element of delicious sound, as the water-plant that lies withered and shrunken on the ground expands into freedom and beauty when once more bathed in

its native flood.

Maynard thanked God. An active power was reawakened, and must make a new epoch in Caterina's recovery.

Presently there were low liquid notes blending themselves with the harder tones of the instrument, and

gradually the pure voice swelled into predominance. Little Ozzy stood in the middle of the room, with his mouth open and his legs very wide apart, struck with something like awe at this new power in "TinTin," as he called her, whom he had been accustomed to think of as a playfellow not at all clever, and very much in need of his instruction ca many subjects. A genii soaring with broad wings out of his milkjug would not have been more astonishing.

Caterina was singing the very air from the Orfeo which we heard her singing so many months ago at the beginning of her sorrows. It was Ho perduto, Sir Christopher's favourite, and its notes seemed to carry on their wings all the tenderest memories of her life, when Cheverel Manor was still an untroubled home. The long happy days of childhood and girlhood recovered all their rightful predominance over the short interval of sin and sorrow.

She paused, and burst into tearsthe first tears she had shed since she had been at Foxholm. Maynard could not help hurrying towards her, putting his arm round her, and leaning down to kiss her hair. She nestled to him, and put up her little mouth to be kissed.

The delicate-tendrilled plant must have something to cling to. The soul that was born anew to music was born anew to love.

On the 10th of May 1790, a very pretty sight was seen by the villagers assembled near the door of Foxholm church. The sun was bright upon the dewy grass, the air was alive with the murmur of bees and the trilling of birds, the bushy blossoming chestnuts and the foamy flowering hedgerows seemed to be crowding round to learn why the church-bells were ringing so merrily, as Maynard Gilfil, his face bright with happiness, walked out of the old Gothic doorway with Tina on his arm. The little face was still pale, and there was a subdued melancholy in it, as of one who sups with friends for the last

time, and has his ear open for the signal that will call him away. But the tiny hand rested with the pressure of contented affection on Maynard's arm, and the dark eyes met his downward glance with timid answering love.

There was no train of bridesmaids, only pretty Mrs Heron leaning on the arm of a dark-haired young man hitherto unknown in Foxholm, and holding by the other hand little Özzy, who exulted less in his new velvet cap and tunic, than in the notion that he was bridesman to Tin-Tin.

Last of all came a couple whom the villagers eyed yet more eagerly

than the bride and bridegroom; a fine old gentleman, who looked round with keen glances that cowed the conscious scapegraces among them, and a stately lady in blue-and-white silk robes, who must surely be like Queen Charlotte.

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Well, that theer's whut I coall a pictur," said old "Mester" Ford, a true Staffordshire patriarch, who leaned on a stick and held his head very much on one side, with the air of a man who had little hope of the present generation, but would at all events give it the benefit of his criticism. "Th' yoong men now-adeys the'r poor squashy things-the' looke well anoof, but the' woon't wear, the' woon't wear. Theer's ne'er un 'll carry his 'ears like that Sir Cris'fer Chuvrell."

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"'Ull bet yer two pots," said another of the seniors, as that yoongster a-walkin' wi' th' parson's wife 'll be Sir Cris'fer's son-he fevours him."

"Nay, yae'll bet that wi' as big a fule as yersen; hae's noo son at oall. As I oonderstan', hae's the nevey as is t'heir th' esteate. The coochman as puts oop at th' White Hoss tellt me as theer war another nevey, a dell finer chap t' looke at nor this un, as died in a fit oall on a soodden, an' soo this here yoong un's got upo' th' perch istid."

At the church gate Mr Bates was standing in a new suit, ready to speak words of good omen as the bride and bridegroom approached. He had come all the way from Cheverel Manor on purpose to see Miss Tina happy once more, and would have been in a state of unmixed joy but for the inferiority of the wedding nosegays to what he could have furnished from the garden at the Manor.

"God A'maighty bless ye both, an' send ye long laife an' happiness," were the good gardener's rather tremulous words.

"Thank you, uncle Bates; always remember Tina," said the sweet low voice, which fell on Mr Bates's ear for the last time.

The wedding journey was to be a circuitous route to Shepperton, where Mr Gilfil had been for several months inducted as vicar. This small living had been given him through the interest of an old friend who had some claim on the gratitude of the Oldinport family; and it was a satisfaction both to Maynard and Sir Christopher that a home to which he might take Caterina had thus readily presented itself at a distance from Cheverel Manor. For it had never yet been thought safe that she should revisit the scene of her sufferings, her health continuing too delicate to encourage the slightest risk of painful excitement. In a year or two, perhaps, by the time old Mr Crichley, the rector of Cumbermoor, should have left a world of gout, and when Caterina would very likely be a happy mother, Maynard might safely take up his abode at Cumbermoor, and Tina would feel nothing but content at seeing a new "little black-eyed monkey" running up and down the gallery and gardens of the Manor. A mother dreads no memories-those shadows have all melted away in the dawn of baby's smile.

In these hopes, and in the enjoyment of Tina's nestling affection, Mr Gilfil tasted a few months of perfect happiness. She had come to lean entirely on his love, and to find life sweet for his sake. Her continual languor and want of active interest was a natural consequence of bodily feebleness, and the prospect of her becoming a mother was a new ground for hoping the best.

But the delicate plant had been too deeply bruised, and in the struggle to put forth a blossom it died.

Tina died, and Maynard Gilfil's love went with her into deep silence for evermore.

This was Mr Gilfil's love-story, which lay far back from the when he sat, worn and grow lonely fireside in Shepperton

Rich brown locks, passionate love, and deep early sorrow, strangely different they seem from the scanty white the apathetic content, and the

unexpectant acquiescence of old age, are but part of the same life's journey; as the bright Italian plains, with the sweet Addio of their beckoning maidens, are part of the same day's travel that brings us to the other side of the mountain, between the sombre rocky walls and among the guttural voices of the Valais.

To those who were familiar only with the grey-haired Vicar, jogging leisurely along on his old chestnut cob, it would perhaps have been hard to believe that he had ever been the Maynard Gilfil who, with a heart full of passion and tenderness, had urged his black Kitty to her swiftest gallop on the way to Callam, or that the old gentleman of caustic tongue, and bucolic tastes, and sparing habits, had known all the deep secrets of devoted love, had struggled through its days and nights of anguish, and trembled under its unspeakable joys. And indeed the Mr Gilfil of those late Shepperton days had more of the knots and ruggednesses of poor human nature than there lay any clear hint of in the open-eyed loving Maynard. But it is with men as with trees: if you lop off their finest branches, into which they were pouring their young life-juice, the wounds will be healed

over with some rough boss, some odd excrescence; and what might have bee a grand tree expanding into liberal shade, is but a whimsical misshapen trunk. Many an irritating fault, many an unlovely oddity, has come of a hard sorrow, which has crushed and maimed the nature just when it was expanding into plenteous beauty, and the trivial erring life which we visit with our harsh blame, may be but as the unsteady motion of a man whose best limb is withered.

And so the dear old Vicar, though he had something of the knotted whimsical character of the poor lopped oak, had yet been sketched out by nature as a noble tree. The heart of him was sound, the grain was of the finest, and in the grey-haired man who filled his pocket with sugarplums for the little children, whose most biting words were directed against the evil-doing of the rich man, and who, with all his social pipes and slipshod talk, never sank below the highest level of his parishioners' respect, there was the main trunk of the same brave, faithful, tender nature that had poured out the finest, freshest forces of its lifecurrent in a first and only love-the love of Tina.

We know not how it is, but few modern books of voyage appear to us to possess that richness, raciness, and variety, which were so characteristic in the narratives of the early navigators. We cannot admit that this decay of interest is mainly to be attributed to the increase of our years, which are many, or to a vitiated taste engendered by long indulgence in highly-spiced literary viands. We do not of course mean to assert that wo can now devour a book with the terrible avidity of a youngster, dream of it all night, and awake on the morrow with undiminished appetite for the banquet. That stage has long gone by, and we are glad of it; for, as our idiosyncrasy inclines us to the

reperusal of especial favourites, we could not by this time have got beyond "Jack the Giantkiller, "Sandford and Merton," the "Fool of Quality," the "Arabian Nights," and the "Pilgrim's Progress,"-books which, for a long period, were our prime and almost exclusive favourites. But even now such works as the "Voyages of Cook," or the "History of the Buccaneers," have to us an inexpressible charm. We never weary of the descriptions of the Eden isle of Otaheite, with its bread-fruit and its palms-of New Holland, with its wondrous fauna, first disclosed to the European eye-or of the wild adventures of the reckless band who plundered the Spanish galleons, and

overawed the garrisons of Panama. But when we turn to modern books of voyage, we find them for the most part dull, frigid, and overloaded with circumstantial detail. They want picturesqueness, they want poetry, and they are intolerably scientific. In them we are constantly aggravated by dreary calculations about the dip of the needle, magnetic-poles, barometrical pressure, and other topics of the sort, which possibly might interest a small minority of the members of a Royal Society, but which, on men in general, have merely the effect of forcing the jaws to expand for the utterance of a protracted yawn. Let the very grandest volcano in the world be belching forth its antarctic fires at an unknown elevation, the accomplished navigator does not try to give a picture of that sublime spectacle by word-painting, but bestows all his energy upon a description of the strata and the scoria, until the reader feels as if he had eaten for dessert half-a-dozen pippins, grown on the shores of the Dead Sea. Beasts, birds, fishes molluscs, trees, shrubs, flowers, and lichens, are not sketched as they appear to the outward eye, but are catalogued in preposterous Latin, which conveys as vivid an idea of their aspect, as if the narrator had taken the pains to transcribe a few pages of "Ainsworth's Dictionary." In short, the curse of the age-pedantry, and an affectation of superior knowledge has lighted even on our navigators, a class of men whom we might reasonably have expected to be free from such a baneful influence.

Yes-were it our last word-we should protest against the egregious foppery of science, which tends so strongly towards symbolism, and cold unidea'd nomenclature! Botany, and chemistry, and geology, and mineralogy, and zoology, and ichthyology, with twenty, fifty, nay an hundred other ologies at their back, are rapidly corrupting our language, barbarising us in expression, and annihilating descriptive power. Those who in reality know nothing of the sciences, or, at best, only smattering of them, thi duty to accommodate t1

the prevalent jargon; hence they write like dissectors, and, instead of giving us books of vivid travel, put forth polyglot manuals which can profit none. Even the more sensible, who despise the affectation of appearing more versed in science than they actually are, feel a kind of awe for the learned bodies who infallibly will pronounce judgment on their researches, and refrain studiously from an expression of feeling or enthusiasm, which they rightly consider to be a style extremely distasteful to the ologists. So they confine themselves to meteorological observations, jottings of soundings, memoranda of the quantity of coal consumed by their engines, et cetera, which results in their narratives possessing, in the eyes of the general public, little more interest than would be felt in the recorded voyages of the captain of a steamer, plying regularly twice in the week between the ports of Rotterdam and London.

We do not expect, and we do not wish, to receive from our explorers or navigators fine writing, as the term is generally understood. We do not want them to moralise, or wax maudlin, or intersperse their narrative with pathetic and philanthropic reflections. We want them to tell us what they saw and what they heard, not with pre-Raphaelite minuteness, but even as these things are impressed on their memories-for the memory of man is, for all purposes of reproduction, a thousand times superior to note-books and journals, which invariably contain superfluities of no actual interest, and terribly wearisome when repeated. We want them to write freshly, freely, and forcibly, conveying to us readers, as closely as may be, the sensations which they experienced; for which purpose, and as a guidé in composition, we earnestly recommend all future explorers to study the works of the late Thomas Cringle. An attentive perusal of these will at once reveal the enormous difference between scientific symbolism and masterly delineation of nature-between diagram and landscape-beween the catalogue and the subjects xhibition.

is absurd to suppose that the