glide, and passing along the oaken passage to the door of the library, enter that apartment. A profound stillness reigned therein, though the room was not devoid of living occupants.

An old gentleman had quietly yielded himself to the indulgence of an evening nap in a maroon-coloured leather chair; whilst on an opposite sofa an elderly lady had, it seemed, been overtaken by the same necessity, whilst to the murmur of the summer breeze she contemplated the satisfactory completion of the day's great event, over the large piece of worsted work, in which, as it now lay idly at her feet, a little terrier dog had made its nest.

Mary Seaham looked upon this scene and smiled to herself. Her quiet entrance had not disturbed the sleepers. It amused her, perhaps, for a moment to witness a placid forgetfulness, affording so strong a contrast to the eager bustle which had but so lately subsided.

But her smile, not exactly sorrowful, was gentle and subdued, harmonizing entirely with the spirit of her movements, as well as with the whole character of the scene in which she seemed to play so solitary a part.

The smile, however, was soon chased by a slight sigh, and softly calling the little dog, who roused and shook itself at her summons, springing with alacrity to obey her call, she passed through the open window, and, with a semblance of relief, proceeded across the lawn, her spirit appearing to revive with every elastic step she took, beneath the influence of the fresh and open air.

*

The clock struck eight as she passed from the grounds, and, skirting the village, made her way through a romantic dell, where a rapid stream issued from a thick wood, turning the rustic mill situated at its base.

Slowly she ascended a precipitous hill leading to a heath-clad common. Although she had avoided the actual village, where rude attempts at wedding decorations would have greeted her on every side, and her appearance have attracted more notice than would have been agreeable to her feelings just then, she did not escape, during her route, some stray encounters; and many a curtsey, smile, and kindly word, were bestowed upon her, by the good, simple-hearted people she met; whilst none the less did she prize this greeting, because with the congratulatory expression of their countenances, something of pitying condolence might be visible.

The poor and humble, however devoid they may be of sentiment, have often readier sympathy for the natural feeling of humanity, than we are apt to give them credit, and they could compassionate the poor young lady who had acted bridesmaid to a last unmarried sister-seen that sister carried far from home and she left behind all alone with the old people.

Perhaps their compassion might extend almost further than the real state of the case required.

It is very sad indeed to be left behind under similar circumstances. The void, the blank, at first experienced, is, perhaps, one of the most painful of all mental affections than can be sustained. But I think there is something almost more melancholy, in what is, sooner or later, sure to follow, in more or less degree, according to the tone of men's minds, or the circumstances of their position—namely, when the aching void begins imperceptibly to assuage, the blank to fill up, and we cease to miss, or with difficulty realize the consciousness of our bereavement; when the strong realities and intimate associations of years seem, as by one magic touch, obliterated, and we would fain recall even the haunting shadows of the past, to assure us that such things have been.

"We cannot paint to memory's eye

The scene, the glance we dearest love,
Unchanged themselves, in us they die,

Or faint and false their shadows prove."

But Mary Seaham was not to be subjected to any of the latter contingencies. She, also, was to depart on the morrow from the home of many years, and it is to contemplate scenes which for a long time she may not look upon again, that we find her hastening.

The history of Mary Seaham's present position was this. She was an orphan, and till the return of a brother from the colonies, where he had gone to examine into the state of some very important family property, she was thrown (particularly since the event celebrated that morning) to a certain extent, alone upon the world. Even had she desired to linger in her deserted home, the privilege was denied her, circumstances rendering it expedient that Glan Pennant should continue to be let, until the final settlement of her brother's affairs; and the great-uncle and aunt, who had hitherto rented the place from their nephew, and at the same time filled the office of affectionate guardians to their unmarried nieces, now, in their old

age, becoming desirous of being established more among their kindred and acquaintances, than in this beautiful, but distant and out of the way, country.

They were shortly to leave Wales, and settle in London with an only daughter, who had lost her husband, and lately returned from India with her children.

The offer had been kindly made to Mary to make her home with these relations under the new arrangement; but, being a stranger to her Indian cousins, together with other motives for its rejection, she declined the proffer, at least, for the present, and preferred accepting an invitation to spend the rest of the summer with another cousin and his wife in -shire, although these relations, except from early associations, which drew her towards them with interest and affection, might be said to be almost equally unknown to her; thus her future prospects were but of a very dim and uncertain nature.

But Mary Seaham did not take this much to heart. She was not of an age or character, nor did she possess experience sufficient, to feel any great weight of depression on this score.

The melancholy she now felt was rather of the soft, tender nature from which, like the early blossom beneath the influence of the mild spring air, her soul seemed struggling forth with hope and longing, towards the uncertain future.

Although now one and twenty, her life had been, in its outward course, so calm and circumscribed, within the current of home interests and domestic affections; so gently and gradually had the home circle broken up around her, link by link falling away, till she scarcely felt the influence of the change, that it was with confiding pleasure rather than any anxious care or restless misgiving, she contemplated an entrance upon a changed sphere of action, never doubting but that she should find love and affection, such as she had ever been accustomed to receive, in all those professing friends who now came forward with proffered assistance in her time of need.

"In every heart a home, in every home a heaven."

In the warm-hearted cousin she remembered of old, one in whom she might repose trust and confidence, as in a brother, and in his beautiful and engaging wife the truth and sympathy of a sister.

Seated, therefore, upon the heathy common, there was more of pleasant dreaminess than of regretful sadness influencing her spirit, as her eyes wandered over the prospect spread before her,

with the attention of one who would fain engrave each familiar feature on her memory, and bear away therein a true and vivid picture of their beauties.

The pretty valley we have described lay immediately at her feet, with the woods beyond, amongst which proudly rose the mansion of Pas Glyn, of which her sister, by her marriage that morning with Sir Hugh Morgan, had become the youthful mistress; and a faint peculiar smile played on Mary's countenance as she sat there in her solitary freedom, and dwelt for a moment on this feature of the landscape.

But it had passed away, when her glance turned towards the spot where stood her own more modest, but still fairer home, Glan Pennant-then upwards, where the mountain ridges, towering one above the other, were now irradiated by one of those sunsets of rare magnificence which nature seemed to have called forth on this occasion, as a farewell token of affection to her meek and loving votary.

WHILST thus absorbed, a step, whose sound the soft carpeting on which it trod had not permitted her to hear, approached near to where Mary Seaham sat, and a voice broke upon her reverie.

She started a little, but perceiving who was the intruder, with a smile and only a slightly heightened colour, she arose and frankly extended her hand with the gentle exclamation: “Mr. Temple!"

The person thus addressed, was a man in the full vigour of his days; of tall, commanding figure; whose pale and noble countenance seemed to wear less marks of worldly care than of high and chastened thought.

His temples were already partly bare, but the rest of his thick, dark, curly hair bespoke the strength of manhood; and his eye, full and eloquent, beamed with a spirit and enthusiasm which might have become a martyr. The black dress he wore seemed to denote his clerical profession.

"I shall not apologize so much as I should otherwise have done, for thus abruptly disturbing you, Miss Seaham," were the words of his rich, full-toned voice; "concluding, as I do, that this evening your meditations must naturally be of somewhat melancholy a nature."

"About an hour ago you would have been but too right in your conclusion, Mr. Temple," responded the young lady. "The bustle of the day over, the dreary feeling of being the last left' was stealing over me to a most insupportable degree; but