Her lips parted in a little smile as if about to speak, but they closed again silently.

'I am afraid my old simile of the lock of hair must stand Alie,' said Marion. 'But child you are tired, and in

my judgment ought to go to bed.'

'My judgment does not say that.'

'And mine says must,' said Mr. Raynor.

She coloured a little, and Marion smiled, and Thornton said laughing,

'You see, Alie-he endorses my words. I am afraid your judgment will stand but a poor chance, after all.'

Even as he spoke, a little stir was heard in the kitchen ; and the opening door shewed them not indeed any part of the stir, but the cause of it,-Mrs. Raynor-a very twilight spot of grey silk against the glow of the kitchen firelight. With as little excitement and bustle as if it had been her own parlour, so did the quakeress come in; and was met at the third step by her son, his motions as quiet though rather more quick.

'Thee sees how much impatience human nature hath yet Henry,' she said. 'I could not wait to see thy wife till she was ready to come to me, therefore am I here.'

And she will not be here until to-morrow,' he said, leading his mother to where Rosalie stood supporting herself by her arm-chair. 'The next best thing is visible.'

The heart of the quakeress had but imperfectly learned the quaker lesson; for in silence she embraced Rosalie and softly replaced her in the great chair, and in silence held out her hands to Thornton and Marion, and gave them most cordial though mute greeting. Then her hand came back to Rosalie and rested caressingly upon her head, and once again Mrs. Raynor stooped down and kissed her.

'Mother,' said Mr. Raynor, 'you forget that Rosalie is not a quakeress.'

SILENCE.

'Nay surely,' she said.

'Wherefore?'

357

He answered only by a glance at the transparent hand on which Rosalie's cheek rested, its very attitude speaking some difficulty of self-control; but his mother understood, and removed her hand and took the chair he had placed for

:

her answering then his questions and putting forth some of her own. Thornton and Marion meanwhile exchanged a

few words but Rosalie said nothing.

'Why does thee not speak, love?' said the quakeress presently. Mr. Raynor answered.

'We were talking a while ago upon your favourite theme of Silence mother. What were those lines you used to quote in its defence ?'

'It matters not, child,' she said, the lines were mayhap written by one who seldom held his peace save in a good cause.'

'Yet they were good, and you used to say them to me?'

'It may be I had done better not,' she said; 'therefore urge me not to say them again.’

'You will let him say them himself?' said Rosalie.

"If it liketh him-' said the quakeress.

not with me on all points.'

He thinketh

His hand laid on hers seemed to say those points were few and unimportant, as with a smile he said—

""Still born silence! thou that art

Flood-gate of the deeper heart!

Offspring of a heavenly kind!

Frost o' the mouth and thaw o' the mind!"'

'Spring and winter are struggling for the mastery here to-night,' said Thornton. 'I wish the thaw would extend itself.'

'No,' Mr. Raynor said, 'not to Rosalie's lips. Do not

set her talking to-night. Let her sleep—if to that she can be persuaded.'

He hath a will-he hath a power to perform,” said Rosalie with a little smile as she rose from her seat; nor did she look to see the smile that her words called forth, although it were more than her own.

It was a pretty morning's work that Mrs. Hopper's best room saw the next day, and a pretty company was there assembled. Only 'their four selves' again,—with just the set-off of the grey dress and clear cap of the quakeress, and the wonder and interest in every line of Hulda's little face, -with only the back-ground of country walls and hard country faces, with no lights but the wood fire and the autumn sun. And the room had no ornament but themselves, unless the splendid red winterberries in Marion's hair. But it was rarely pretty and picturesque; and even the fact that Rosalie must sit whenever she need not stand, rather heightened the effect. Mrs. Hopper said it was the prettiest sight she ever saw, and Tom Skiddy made only one reservation,' he wouldn't say that he couldn't see a prettier.'

COMING INTO PORT.

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CHAPTER XXXIX.

Behold I see the haven nigh at hand,

To which I mean my wearie course to bend ;
Vere the main shete, and beare up with the land,
The which afore is fayrly to be kend,

And seemeth safe from storms that may offend:
Where this fayre Virgin wearie of her way
Must landed bee, now at her iourneye's end:
There eke my feeble barke a while may stay,
Till merry wynd and weather call her hence away.

Faërie Queen.

con

Ir is a melancholy fact that the end of a voyage cannot be as picturesque as the beginning thereof,-whether it be a voyage in earnest, or merely the 'wearie course' above referred to. There is no momentary expectation of either storms or sea-sickness, and both are an old story. The waves do not gradually run higher and higher, but ' trarywise,'-there is very little sea on-if one may borrow a steam phrase, and the water becomes ingloriously tranquil. Unless indeed the fictional craft is to blow up with a grand explosion-and that in Sam Weller's words, 'is too excitin' to be pleasant. In fact the voyage is over before the last chapter; and the only thing that one can do, is to pilot sundry important people over the bar, and through the straits, and land them all too safe, on the shores of this working-day world.

Not that as somebody says, 'people begin to be stupid the moment they cease to be miserable' ;-but still, when the course of true love, or of any other small stream, doth

run smooth, its little falls, and whirls, and foam, and voluntary beating against the rocks-its murmurs as a hardused and thwarted individual-must of course be dispensed with. There is nothing for it, on either hand, but smooth

water.

Mrs. Raynor sat alone in her library. Absolutely alone; for though the cat was enjoying himself on the rug, Mr. Penn was enjoying himself elsewhere; or it might be was attending to his duties on Long Island. Even the invariable knitting work was laid aside, and yet Mrs. Raynor busied herself with nothing else,-unless her own thoughts, or the general appearance of the room-for so might be construed the looks that from time to time went forth on an exploring expedition. With never failing recollection she replenished the fire, even before such attention was needed; and once or twice even left her seat, and with arranging hands visited the curtains and the books upon the table. Then returning, she took a letter from her pocket and read the beloved words once more. It was all needless. The words—she knew them by heart already, and the room was ordered after the most scrupulous Quaker exactness.

The

The sharp edge of this was taken off by exquisite flowers, an eccentric little wood fire, and a bountifully spread tea table; where present dainties set off each other, and cinnamon and sugar looked suspicious of waffles. silver glimmered with mimic fires, the plates and cups shone darkly in their deep paint and gilding; the tall sperm candles were borne aloft, but as yet unlighted. Even the sadcoloured curtains hung in softened folds in the soft fireshine, their twilight tints in pretty contrast with the warm glow upon the ceiling. As for the flowers, they hung their heads, and looked up, and laid their soft cheeks together, after a most coquettish fashion—as if they were whispering; and the breath of their whispers filled the room. A fair, half