much bigger than the lambs in the nearest field. They passed Upper and Lower Doury, and many picturesque hamlets and cottages-towns, as they call them, wherever the house and barn entitles the owner to say, "Ye're welcome to our town!" There were decent, clean-clad matrons, pretty, tidy girls, or curly-headed children, striving, in their scanty store of English, to answer the questions of the "quality," and to show them that the Glenariff people are as English as their neighbours. A very mistaken notion is amongst them, that Irish is a vulgar language; and as we think of French and Italian, they think of English, that it is an actual accomplishment to be able to answer the strangers, not in the vernacular. But for our part, it is far more interesting to witness the courteous gesture-the anxious, yet gratified look, when the homely native answer seems understood, with its accompanying characteristic, the civil, proud, hospitable refusal of tendered reward, than to hear the common tongue, or see the common ways of the people of "our town." Fancy may have much to do with this, for human nature is much the same in town or country; and that meanness, and knavery, and imbecility, and folly, may exist among them, we do not venture to dispute. But to themselves be it told; we can't help that! They ought to be different; for God has blessed them in the air they breathe, in the food they eat, in the earth below, and in the heavens above them! No wonder that the Glenspeople seldom emigrate, and that when they do, they return to die at home.

At this part of the glen, the road turns off, and our party pursued their way down a narrow "radeen" to the river side, at Eass-na-cruib; but turning up to the hall, to get a smoother path, they found themselves involved in a hazel-wood, which extends a good way up the acclivity from the river. It is intersected by so many paths, no one knowing exactly the way to choose, each (for the party was pretty numerous) chose his own way, every one imagining, as the various churches do, that his was the straight and narrow path. Nearly half an hour passed in struggling through the wood-labyrinth, and the whistle, and the call, "Where are you?" and "where are you?" "I'm

here, I'm here," resounded on all sides, though only a few yards separated them. Mary had lingered to gather a branch of the little musk-scented thorny rose, so common on those hills. Not having observed by which way the others might have gone, she took a different direction, and had wandered a good way before they missed her.

Suddenly she thought she heard soft whispering, and, suspecting they might mean to play some trick upon her, she advanced cautiously, and silently putting aside the branches, she saw James and Isabella, seated on a mossy slope, his arm round her waist, her hand locked in his, and his eyes! -ah! how often had she read their eloquence-too often now! She heard, she saw his treachery; she sickened, and as she staggered back, her ankle caught amongst the branches, and twisted in the effort she made to esacpe unseen. Pain and sickness overcame her. The rustling noise startled James, who rose, exclaiming

"Ah! who's there?"

He saw Mary; his heart smote him; he felt humbled and afraid before that pale, trembling girl. However, she summoned her pride, and calmly said her ankle was sprained, and begged to be left alone till their return from the waterfall, which would not be long; and James ran off to bring the doctor of the party, whose laugh they now heard not far from them.

Was it unnatural that Mary should shrink from Isabella's touch, or that she kept her tearful eyes turned upon the ground, while with] quivering and aching heart, she prayed that God, by some speedy mercy, might end her days. Her ankle was examined, and as there was no apparent injury, the doctor thought a little rest would restore its usual strength. She rejected the many offers of the others to remain with her; and alone, as she desired, seated herself by the little stream from one of the smaller falls.

She could not have chosen a sweeter seat a sheltered mossy rock, near which briar-roses and honeysuckles dipped their garlands in the stream. When quite alone, her thoughts and tears, so painfully repressed, gained mastery of her patience and prudence. Hot and fast her tears fell, and sighs and sobs shook her slight frame. Pride

and passion triumphed for a time; at length she said

"I have no right-I have no right to be so angry. I am not his wife, and I should thank God for that! It would be worse then. It's hard to find him deceitful, who I was so sure was upright, true, and-oh! how gentle, kind. But this may have been Bell's work; I'm sure it has. She flirts with every one; James himself might see that. I'm sure the doctor seems as great a favourite as he is; James himself might see that!-indeed, he sometimes seems to have more influence. Well, if I never should be his wife, I hope, for his own sake, he may not marry the heartless, deceiving creature! I can scarcely believe she could treat me so. Now I remember many little incidents, I scarcely noticed at the time. How often have I seen his eyes fixed upon her with such tenderness! I was not jealous, for I thought that gentle look their natural expression; but now I see! The other day, as I came into the room, now I know why he blushed and looked so confused, for he seemed to have been whispering to her. Yet may not all this be my own imagination?—and may not he consider himself at liberty? or may not Bell have persuaded him that she loves him? Perhaps he loves me still. Well, at all events, though he may be only gratifying his vanity, on either side, I am glad I had command of myself. If he has been trifling with her, he is wrong, to be sure; but he would just think me a jealous fool to be so hurt. So I'll dry my eyes, and put away the signs of my foolishness. I'll not let him think that I see or feel his conduct, though I fear he thinks I suspect. I'm better now, and will try to be calm, when he comes back."

Her heavy sighs and sobs had not half subsided, for convulsively and bitterly she had wept. She rose, took off her bonnet, and bathed her temples, and cooled her burning palms, in that delightful stream. She felt calmer and more assured. She sat down again, and watched the goldfinches and redbreasts fluttering through the branches, or alighting for a moment to sip or splash in the shallow water, or the little fish staying their wavy bodies up against the current. Then she would think over her honey-store of poetry. Her elastic spirit had almost

"In Conrad's absence, wouldst thou have it glad?" returned she, with a blush and a smile, that made him think his secret as yet undiscovered; though it could not be long so. "Yes, James, my song is sad enough; but there is a moral in it. It treats of constancy."

"Oh! I remember," said he, assuming an unconscious look, far from what he felt. "That is where he speaks of preferring his first love, though of lowly birth, to all the ladies of high rank, comparing them to the bright red berries on the rowan-tree, showy to look at, and hard to attain, but not half so sweet as the strawberry at its base, Mary."

So saying, he offered his arm, with a gallant and tender air, and they rejoined their companions. He sat beside her on their way home, and the anxious desire he felt to lighten the pain his meditated desertion might cost her, aided by Mary's unresentful gentleness, gave a tenderness to his looks and manner greater than he could have been supposed capable of exhibiting on the eve of inflicting such an injury on her peace. So he pressed her hand, and talked poetic prose, and recalled old scenes, and pleasant memories of old times, as together they watched the lengthening shadows on the western sides of the glen. Vivid and deep in Mary's soul, years and years after, was the recollection of that day's mingled pain and pleasure; even the form of the clouds in the sunset, and the golden gleams as they slanted round the velvet slope of Lurgaiden, and the deepening of the cool, blue twilight as they neared home, all was remembered as if it had been yesterday. And all that time her heart had been gathering confidence, and recovering her trust in him, who little deserved it. She instinctively tempered her hopes and fears, notwithstanding all that had occurred; she knelt that night in happy prayer, and slept the sweet sleep of content.

youth is to age-as Spring is to Au. tumn-so is hope when compared to memory, whose best pleasures must be melancholy. I remember! I remember! is ever a sorrowful burden-it must have sad music! The falling cadence of the truth-telling voice sounds of sorrow. When we, who are travelling westward, look back through the dim distance of our years, do we not see the pale phantoms of changed friends, with hearts grown cold or sordid, or, it may be, vicious, or feel our own chilled and saddened, thinking of those who now live only in our hearts or glide through our dreams with the mournful wail, no more, oh, never more? It is wiser to look forward to the light, though it may be setting, where Hope, like the glory of the evening west, can gild even the portals of the tomb!

The scenery of Glendun, where Mary's home was, is not so grand as that of Glenariff. There are no great falls in its river, and but one or two small ones from the hills. Its magnificence departed with its oaks, but its peaceful, pastoral beauty remains; and time, which impairs most things, makes that more beautiful-every year adds shoots to the oak-sapling, and gives a new honeysuckle arch, or garland, to the rocks, that rise so rugged from the shamrock pasture.

At the back of Mrs. Mac Alister's cottage is a burn, or little river, which tumbles over rocks from above, and then hurries precipitously for a quarter of a mile through a wooded glen of hazel and rowan-tree. There nature has made many a sheltered seat, to tempt lovers to forget time, friends to forget reserve, and childhood to gather laps-full of wild flowers, and plumes of feathery fern. Here Mary and James had many a happy hour; and here, but a few weeks since, he had renewed his protestation of affection, and thought himself sincere. To this seat he led her, not many days after their visit to Glenariff-he wished, yet feared to speak. There was a war within his heart. An easy, self-indulgent life, a pretty wife, novelty, and independence these were the idol. His first love's grace, goodness, gentleness, faith, and no common share of loveliness-these were the offerings he was about to immolate on that idol's altar. Oh, that mistaken self! On this even

VOL. XXXII.-NO. CXC.

ing they were alone in the glen. He talked, half-friendship, half-love, little differing from what he had latterly accustomed her to, yet not much under her hopes, till they sat down on a bank of moss, close by the stream.

66

Mary," he said, "we have loved each other long. It was before I went abroad I told you I loved you; and here, Mary, with gentle firmness for which I honour you, you refused any kind of bond between us, except that which is alone worth having, the love of the whole heart. I am, come, Mary, to humble myself in your eyes. come to tell you that I love anotherI cannot help it. You refused the promise I offered you-you were right. I did not know myself then. I don't deserve you, Mary."

I am

Mary was already sobbing, and could not speak. Astonishment, and a pasAt last she

sion of tears, choked her. said

"I feared this, James; I almost knew it that day in Glenariff. But I won't reproach you-I will pray to God for strength. I thought I had loved you better than myself. I do not wish to forget entirely. I may try to be glad if you should be happy-I may still love you as a sister or a friend."

"Now, Mary, Mary, what am I to do? I have asked Bell-she loves me. I am ashamed of myself, but she has consented to marry me."

She dried her tears. Henceforth, for evermore, those hopes and fears, those joys and sorrows, so dearly nursed and loved so long, must be as nothing to her her world is empty

"The heart is dead, surely. In her world plainly
All seemeth amiss.

To thy heaven, Holy One! call home thy little one,
She hath partaken of all earth's bliss-
Living and loving."

A long paused ensued. At length, "Oh, Mary!" he cried, "how meanly you must think of me; but indeed it has not been deliberate wrong to youI grieve for the pain I have givenbut you have strength of mind, and you will yet meet some one far more deserving of your excellence."

"There now, James, don't talkdon't make speeches now-we part friends--I'll try to believe the best of you-I'll be reconciled to my lot in time; but there is one thing I fear, I am sorry for my poor mother-how ill she will take what she must think a

2 E

slight upon me, and she has had so much to bear, and is so full of hope for me; we must not let her know all the truth; she must be led to think the fault mine, if fault there be-she can know this truth, that I would not marry you now, knowing your altered feelings I would not, for my own sake, yet 'tis to save her pride, not my own, I beg this; let her not think that youlet her think me capricious-anything -but save her heart this blow-let us go now I am not well-I am so sickOh, James, take me home."

The shock, and the effort to express her feelings, was too much, and she fainted. He carried her to the stream, sprinkled her face with the clear, cold water, and used every means to restore her. The faint lasted long, and he, dreading he had killed her, was in despair, and about to carry her home, when she began to recover. He reproached himself, and with tears in his eyes, said all he could to entreat forgiveness, and to assure her of his unalterable friendship; and there was the end of poor Mary's dream of happiness. As soon as she was able to walk, she rose, and leaning on his arm, reached home. A heart-ache and a head-ache sent her to bed, there to come to peace as she might, and James, half in shame, half in sorrow, went to spend the evening with Bell.

There they talked over their future prospects, and built their hopes upon the quicksands of selfishness.

Mary

For several days Mary kept her bed; not that she was so very sick, but that she might get leave to weep in peace, without letting any one see. James came often to ask for her, and the poor mother never doubted but that all was as usual. As soon as she sat up again, he would visit them either morning or evening. would gladly have left the parlour when he came, but could not, as her mother sat there to spin or knit; so, without exciting suspicion of carelessness, or puzzling questions, she seldom could do that; when obliged to stay, she talked upon indifferent subjects, or sometimes read aloud, as a resource from the awkwardness of her situation.

She contrived, however, to keep up a show of cheerfulness, far, far from her heart; the double-sobbing sigh, broken between her words, sometimes forced its way, sometimes mixed with the humming of an old tune, but was oftener

crushed back to its home, in her own sad heart. These arts did not entirely avail to deceive even a blind mother's watchful ear.

"Mary, machree! what ails you?— you're not getting better, I think-your hands are burning-your brows throbbing-God be good to you, my child, is it fever you're taking?—or, dear, has anything happened to vex you? Is it James that's fretting you?"

Mary did not answer.

"Something is wrong between you -there is something in the tones of your voices I never heard before; and, Mary, you speak proudly-I'm sure he's as good-natured, and the fault is your own, Mary."

"It may be, mother, but I cannot pretend one thing and think another I never, never can be his wife-he will be very happy without me—he can get a wife with money and beauty—he knows I don't love him as I did the change just came by degrees, but that does not make him so unhappy as you think -I won't marry him!"

"Now, Mary, aroon, what makes you speak that way?-'tis not like yourself nobody shall urge you, my child-may the saints and the Lord Jesus guide you! Sure you know I'd be content with what pleases you best. I might have been glad, dear, to have left you with a husband like him, and your change will vex him. Sure he loves you ten times better than when you were children together-when, if I'd find a fault with you, or you would cry, he'd be as bad as if 'twas himself was punished. Agh, it will be the sore heart to him, poor fellow, this turn in you, I'm thinking."

"Well, mother, he will soon be going out to Spain again, and if I loved him, I'd break my heart. He does not care so much as you think, and all is best as it is, except that I am not well. I feel as if what you said of fever may be true there is a heavy illness upon me."

The fever set in rapidly, and for some weeks her recovery was doubtful. Her ravings were too wild to be made anything of; yet general suspicion rested on the minds of her friends that the fault had not been hers, though the suffering was. The priest, the kind old man, felt for her like a father; reasoned with James, comforted the mother, who was gradually reconciled, as day by day Mary gave signs of re

covery.