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CHAPTER III.

Mrs.

THUS cherished by both, how often would Mr. Maitland think of his first address to Florence; “I am a solitary being, and have few to love."-Now was he once more surrounded by the fondest objects of affection, and silently and fervently did he lift up his heart to that gracious God who had again made existence so dear a blessing. Percy felt for him the affection of a sister, and on no subject with regard to her daughters -from the most important to the slightest trifle-did she neglect to consult him equally with her husband; indeed Mr. Percy would often say, when applied to, "Ask Mr. Maitland, my love, I have made over the girls to him; I have given him a present of Mary and

Florence. Ah! he begins, I have no doubt, to find the gift somewhat troublesome. Come here, girls, and confess what you have been about, that you are thus thrown back upon me."

But there was yet another small claimant for Mr. Maitland's favour, for no sooner did he take his accustomed place in the family circle than the little Charles would scramble up upon his knee, and putting up his small mouth to be kissed, would say, "Now Charlie sing you a song-what song me sing you a day?" Amongst his numerous collection it was indeed no easy choice; for though he could speak but most imperfectly, and in many words Mary's patient endeavours to get him to pronounce the letter r had completely failed, yet he could sing every tune he had ever heard, and the original words of his own composition met with unqualified approbation from both old and young. It was indeed sweet to hear him singing on the stairs of a morning when nurse was carrying him down to pay his early visit in the breakfast parlour; and often in the night would he start up in

his little crib, and begin singing the old English song of "Hearts of Oak," to the delight of his sisters, who from their vicinity to the nursery were often awakened by these sudden bursts of patriotism. Thus to Mr. Maitland did nearly two years glide happily away, and that morning dawned which threatened once again to make the world a wilderness to him.

It had been arranged by Mr. Percy that the communication was to be made to him in the evening when he came as usual to join their little family concert. It was gently done-he said little; in fact, he felt at first too much agitated to speak, but the change in his countenance was instantaneous ; there was an expression of sorrowful resignation they could not bear to look upon.

"Come girls," said Mr. Percy, after a short interval, "let us have a little music; something cheerful. Come let us sing, Hark, the lark !"

Mrs. Percy sat down to the piano to play the accompaniment. Mr. Percy sang with

them; but it would not do, the girls were scarcely able to raise a note. Mr. Maitland had retired into a far-off corner of the room, and in a few minutes they were seated by him, each holding a hand in theirs; their tears were dropping fast upon it. Mr. Percy advanced towards them. Florence suddenly looked up, "Papa," she said, Maitland go with us? we must not part!"

"why cannot Mr.

O indeed, indeed,

"Gently, Florence-gently-think what you are saying. Can you expect Mr. Maitland to leave his country; and at such an important moment would you remove him from his medical advisers ?"

"If that is all," Mr. Maitland answered, "I would not give it a moment's thought. No; could I believe that a poor helpless being such as I am would not add to your other cares, I would willingly accompany you to the farthest corner of the world; seriously, the distance of Provence would be nothing to me. I could easily return with John in the spring, were my eyes

then in a situation to admit of this operation being attempted. My absence from you would be but short."

A few more words were said; it became a settled point; Mr. Maitland was to accompany them. The spirits of the girls rose from this moment; all threatening clouds had cleared away; their horizon was calm and bright again as a summer sky, and they were seen as usual, next morning, wandering with Mr. Maitland over hill and dale, listening with delight to his vivid sketches of his early youth, or dwelling with deep interest on occasional touches of his later sorrows. He spoke to them sometimes of his daughter, of her playful vivacity, her angelic sweetness, and the deep, pious, cheerful resignation with which she met her early death. To become like Erselie, (for so after a Greek lady, a friend of her mother's, she had been called,) and to be to him as a daughter, became the fond ambition of both sisters. Their attachment to Mr. Maitland was unbounded; and it was sweet to see those young girls guiding his uncertain steps up the steep ascent, or seated by his