most perfect object in creation; and about this child there sprung up between his wife and himself a sympathy that had never been before. Only deep in Clarissa's heart there was a vague jealousy. She would have liked her baby to be hers alone. The thought of his father's claim frightened her. In the time to come her child might grow to love his father better than her.

Finding her counsel rejected, Miss Granger would ask in a meek voice if she might be permitted to kiss the baby, and having chilled his young blood by the cool and healthy condition of her complexion, would depart with an air of long-suffering; and this morning visit being over, Clarissa was free of her for the rest of the day. Miss Granger had her duties.' She devoted her mornings to the regulation of the household, her afternoons to the drilling of the model villagers. In the evening she presided at her father's dinner, which seemed rather a chilling repast to Mr. Granger, in the absence of that one beloved face. He would have liked to dine off a boiled fowl in his wife's room, or to have gone dinnerless and shared Clarissa's tea and toast, and heard the latest wonders performed by the baby, but he was ashamed to betray so much weakness. So he dined in state with Sophia, and found it hard work to keep up a little commonplace conversation with her during the solemn meal-his heart being elsewhere all the time.

That phase of gloom and despondency, through which his mind had passed during the summer that was gone, had given place to brighter thoughts. A new dawn of hope had come for him with the birth of his child. He told himself again, as he had so often told himself in the past, that his wife would grow to love him—that time would bring him the fruition of his desires. In the mean while he was almost entirely happy in the possession of this new blessing. All his life was coloured by the existence of this infant. He had a new zest in the driest details of his position as the master of a great estate. He had bought some two thousand acres of neighbouring land at different times since his purchase of Arden Court; and the estate, swollen by these large additions, was fast becoming one of the finest in the county. There was not a tree he planted in the beginning of this new year which he did not consider with reference to his boy; and he made extensive plantations on purpose that he might be able to point to them by and by and say, These trees were planted the year my son was born.' When he went round his stables, he made a special survey of one particularly commodious loose-box, which would do for his boy's pony. He fancied the little fellow trotting by his side across farms and moorlands, or deep into the woods to see the newly-felled timber, or to plan a fresh clearing. It was a pleasant day-dream.

FROM MEMORY'S TABLETS

SHE pluck'd the petals from the flowers;
She felt his eyes upon her face;

A few stars struggled up the sky,

The moon slow mounted to her place.

Before them lay the silent street;

There at the window as they stood,

The distant vista show'd the sea,

That came in murmuring, flood on flood.

She leant against the inner wall;

Draped curtains hid her half from sightShe look'd so thoughtful and so pale And fragile in the evening light.

A sudden passion came to him

He seized the hand that pull'd the flower; Love leap'd all barriers, broke all bounds, And would have fool'd him in that hour.

She look'd upon him mournfully

Her radiant eyes were wet with tears s;
She trembled as the simplest girl,
Half-hovering 'tween hopes and fears.

Yes; she, the woman of the world,
The reigning belle whom all caress,
Stands, with clasp'd hands and quiv'ring lip,
In new and tearful tenderness.

Ah, love,' she said, 'it may not be

Old bonds, though loveless, claim my faith;

A gulf is fix'd 'twixt thee and me,

Which only can be bridged by death.'

Vainly he pleaded for one kiss,

One parting touch of that fair hand; 'Twas something terrible to see

The passion of the man unmann'd.

'Be silent,' said she; hear me speak.
My fairy palace is o'erthrown;
I thought we could be dearest friends,
But out of friendship love has grown.

Your friendship was a dream fulfill'd,

The goal to which my whole life tended;
I did not see the precipice

Where love began and friendship ended.

No silken egotist had touch'd

This satiated soul of mine;
My very being seem'd to breathe
More nobly in the air of thine.

God help us now! for we must part:
I will not wish we had not met.
Farewell! there is no other way-
I do not ask thee to forget.'

God help us! how the tender voice

Broke o'er the words with accents hollow;

He look'd up with a last appeal,

But she had turn'd-he dare not follow.

All had been true that she had said

His own wild words had wrought this woe;

He might have stay'd to be her friend,
But as her lover he must go.

Long motionless and passion-pale,

Where she had left him there he stood;

His eyes were on the far-off sea,

That came in murmuring, flood on flood.

He ask'd no pity from the stars—

They shine serene on misery;

But the sea's bosom heav'd like his

With old deep-seated agony.

SECOND SERIES, VOL. V. F.S. VOL. XV.

U