accepted suggestions, for improvements both in the house and grounds, and so cheerfully entered into every minute detail, how could even more penetrative persons than old Watson and Mrs. Bulling imagine more than they saw? Ill in health, how could that be, when she could make any exertion if it were needed, and endure such fatigue? Pale she was indeed; her very lips were seen to lose their ruby tint, and her dark eyes to grow strangely dim; but the Hampshire air would bring back the bonny rose, and they must look out for some one, a right noble gentleman, for her to wed; and then her smiles would not sink upon the heart as they sometimes did, making them feel sad they knew not why, but be glad and cheerful as her voice. So, often gossiped those who delighted in calling Miss Leslie mistress; and when Sir Ronald Elliot made his appearance at Woodlands, laden, he declared, with commissions from the Countess-else he had not dared intrude on Miss Leslie's privacy-they fixed upon him at once as the cavalier they wanted. That the gallant young sailor should make himself friends amongst all the tenantry of Woodlands was not very wonderful, as British sailors are generally greeted with joy wherever they come; but, that he should choose to quit Amersley in such a dull, damp, uninviting season as November, and make a pilgrimage to Woodlands, for literally nothing but his own pleasure, would have been much more extraordinary to Florence, had not her mind been too pre-occupied to think about it. That her pale face, from which she imagined every trace of any previous attraction must have departed, joined as it was to a manner so spiritless, a form so faded, could have any fascination for one so buoyant, so life-loving as the young Captain, was a circumstance in itself so wholly improbable, as never for one moment to have entered her thoughts. Yet that face and form had haunted Sir Ronald from the first evening he had seen her; he saw-nay, Lady St. Maur had told him, that she was in deep affliction; and he felt an interest rising towards her in a most incomprehensible manner, and became restless and weary. To the amusement of his relatives, he declared he would take a run down to Old London, and call at Woodlands, in case he could do anything for Miss Leslie in his way. Take Woodlands in his way! He might know his road across the Atlantic, Lady St. Maur told him, but certainly not over England, if he talked of going through Hampshire in the straight road from Warwick to London. He did not care, go he would; Miss Leslie must be sick of her loneliness, and he would go and cheer her, and bring her back, vowing that Constance, though she had a governess all to herself, was unbearable without the influence of Florence. "Bring her back if you can; I give you free permission; but whether your company, most gallant Captain, will cheer her loneliness, or whether it would be quite proper that it should, I will not pretend to say. However, if you bring her back, you are quite welcome to go," was Lady St. Maur's parting address, and Sir Ronald forthwith went. Florence was not quite ready to return to Amersley, and Sir Ronald declared he would go to Portsmouth meanwhile; but, somehow or other, there were several things for which Florence was waiting, and which ought long before to have arrived from London, and Florence's movements were retarded by their non-arrival; so to London the Captain went, and by his sailor-like bustle and activity all that was needed came down to Hampshire in a marvellously short space of time; and, this accomplished, he hovered about the neighbourhood of Woodlands, his vicinity perfectly unknown to Florence, and, just before Christmas, escorted her back to Amersley, with the most brother-like cordiality imaginable. CHAP. XLIX. Lord Edgemere's family, including Frank Howard and Minie Leslie, had arrived in Warwickshire before Florence returned, and Lady St. Maur had driven over to see them. Nothing as yet had alloyed the happiness of Minie, for Frank had found it impossible to impart to her his fears regarding his father. Florence had heard repeatedly from her sister, and answered her letters while at Woodlands. She had nerved her mind to read those letters, radiant as they were with love and joy, again and yet again, till the bitter pangs which they caused were so entirely conquered that she could peruse them from beginning to end without any visible emotion. She compelled herself to think of meeting them, of looking once more on Howard, and as the betrothed husband of another; she thought of it till every feeling of her own was conquered, and she believed herself nerved to meet them so calmly, so collectedly, that not a change of colour or quivering of voice should be betrayed. But suspense, or rather the anticipation of trial, was intolerable, and she therefore wisely resolved to meet it at once. "Florence, you know not what you undertake; be advised, there can be no need for it so soon," urged Lady St. Maur; but Florence's determination was not to be shaken. "We must meet," she answered, sadly, yet firmly; "why should I defer it? Am I so weak that I cannot see the fulfilment of my earnest prayers without evincing emotion? No, let me try my strength, and then I can better judge myself, and know how to proceed." And accordingly, as soon as the weather permitted, they went to Beech Vale. Florence was received with the warmest cordiality by all the family; the change which they supposed her severe illness had occasioned was sincerely regretted, and warm congratulations on her own legacy and her sister's happy prospects followed. "Minie and Frank are in the east room; pray make no compliments, dear Florence, but join them when you like. Minie is all impatience to see you, and wondered what you could find to detain you so long at Woodlands, in this miserable season," Lady Mary said, after some little time had elapsed in ordinary conversation. "Frank only returned from London last night; I have seen him but a few minutes this morning, and I fear that all is not as right as it should be-his face was somewhat over shadowed." It was well she said this; for now the hour of trial had come, Florence had felt for the moment as if she could not meet it; but recalled by Lady Mary's unconscious intimation of what she herself had long anticipated, her strength of mind and purpose triumphed, and with unfaltering steps she quitted the apartment. In the east room, as directed, she found them, but the voice, not of joy, but of sorrow, met her ear; and so engrossed were those she sought in their own thoughts, that she stood for some time unobserved. Frank was pacing the chamber with most uneven steps, his cheek highly coloured, and his eye flashing. Minie's arms were resting on the table, her head laid upon them, in an attitude of complete despondency, while her whole frame shook with sobs. Her beautiful hair hanging loosely over her, concealed her face from her sister; but Florence knew that gentle nature too well to need further proof of suffering than what she beheld. "Cruel, unjust, capricious!" were the first words she heard, in Frank's most agitated voice. "With his hoards of untouched gold, why should he want more? Why is my happiness to be blighted simply because an unjust parent refuses his consent to my wedding a portionless bride? Minie, come what will, you must, you SHALL be mine! With or without his consent, I will claim the promise you have made me. Are we to suppress our united happiness for no cause? for this refusal assigns none. My father has no right to gall me thus! I will not bear it. What can money or title give me more than I possess already? I seek happiness and love, not ambition. Minie, my own sweet love! do not weep thus; we shall be happy in each other yet." "No, Frank, no!" replied Minie, pushing back her long hair, which was wet with tears, and looking up in his face, as he bent over her and clasped his arms around her. "No, precious as your love is, I will not come between you and your parent. If he cannot receive me as his daughter, if he thinks reverence and love -for I would give him both-are nothing worth, compared to gold, how can I, how dare I burden you with me? No, no! I love you too well to expose you to your father's wrath. We must wait; perhaps-" but her sweet voice faltered as she spoke-" he will relent after a time, and then "Relent!" muttered Frank, even while he passionately kissed the upturned brow, as if to thank her for the half-whispered hope; "I never knew him relent when once he had so spoken. Why did I not marry the heiress ? forsooth, he asked me; as if his son had power to woo and wed whomsoever he pleased. Florence!" he abruptly exclaimed, as, lifting his head at the moment, he met her meek and gentle gaze; good God, how changed! how ill you must have been!" "But I am well now, Mr. Howard, perfectly well; therefore pray do not judge me by my looks," she replied, meeting his glance with one as ready, if not more free from agitation than his own; and then she bent down to imprint repeated kisses on the cheek of her sister, who, at Frank's first exclamation, had sprung into her arms. "Minie, darling, I did not expect a greeting of tears; come, smile. We have not met for a long time, and I have been ill, and you have been happy; ought you not to welcome me like your own sweet self? What is this weighty grief? Mr. Howard, treat me as the sister you have called me, and tell me the particulars of what I so imperfectly heard. Lord Glenvylle objects to my sister as your bride because she has no portion; is that it? An evil easily remedied, since, thanks to Mrs. Rivers's generosity, my sister is not portionless. I should have looked to this long ago had not illness prevented me; but now let me know all." Frank seized her hand, and pressed it energetically to his lips. If it trembled, and was somewhat hastily withdrawn, he was too much excited to notice it. We will give the substance of his tale in our own words, as there were some points which, in his relation, he purposely omitted. His father had insisted he should break off his engagement, for that his consent to his union with any but an heiress, and one who could give him either name and title, or the means of purchasing them, should never be obtained. In vain Frank urged that he had already a name, and a proud one; that his father's title was sufficient to content him. He was not ambitious, and should abhor owing more to his wife than domestic happiness and love. Why should Lord Glenvylle dwell so much on a pecuniary portion for his son's bride, when his wealth was already so enormous, and he, Frank, wished not for a shilling more than his present handsome allowance? Lord Glenvylle was too cold and dignified a person to give any violent sign of anger; but he grew prouder and prouder, colder and colder, till his son felt as if he were addressing a statue, and his excited spirits sunk back so chilled, that it was an effort to urge more. Yet still he spoke, for his love was too deep to be banished by a parent's word. He said that he was convinced Minie would not be portionless; her sister was not one to hoard her lavish wealth: and then it was (though Howard did not repeat it to Florence) that the viscount scornfully bade him woo the heiress instead of her sister. The possessor of Woodlands, its rich pasture lands and woody enclosures, might be a fit wife for his son. portion! Lord Glenvylle laughed at the idea. Miss Leslie had been too lately made an heiress A Minie, unsuspicious of all evil as she generally was, found some difficulty in preserving her joyous spirits until their being alone permitted her to draw from him the cause. Frank had intended to conceal, or at least to soften the facts, but his nature was much too impetuous. Miserable himself, and therefore longing for sympathy and affection, he poured out his whole soul to his betrothed. Minie was not one to bear up against an unexpected blow with fortitude. She did not utter a syllable of com to give away any part of her possessions; and even if she did, nothing that she could settle on her sister short of the inheritance itself would endow her sufficiently to be Frank Howard's bride. There was alike scorn and satire in every word; perhaps there was more, but icy pride was a veil too invulnerable for his agitated son to penetrate. He used all his eloquence, yet never forgetting the respect he always paid his father; but his kindly feelings felt withered within him, and when that interview ended by a solemn declaration, on the part of Lord Glen-plaint, but she clung to him and wept unrevylle, that if Mr. Francis Howard persisted in wedding a portionless girl, his allowance would be stopped on the instant, and he would find himself without a shilling wherewithal to support himself or bride; so let him ponder ere he decided. Frank left his presence without uttering a word, for speak he could not. The hot blood had mounted to his very brow, and he bit his nether lip in the effort to strain the bursting passion, till the blood came; but he conquered himself. Lord Glenvylle, in the solitary moments of remorse which followed Frank's departure, could not recall one word in which his son had forgotten their relative positions of child and parent. strainedly. Her grief of course heightened Frank's more tumultuary feelings, and occasioned the passionate burst which Florence had overheard. Although Howard did not enter into all these particulars, he related enough for Florence perfectly to comprehend the fact. Perhaps her own previous cogitations on this subject rendered her more than usually clear-sighted. Be that as it may, though she did not betray her intentions, the time passed with the lovers was not without its fruit. She left them soothed and hopeful; they scarcely knew wherefore, and their every feeling of love and veneration heightened towards herself. To the astonishment of Lord and Lady St. Maur, the following morning Florence announced an intention of visiting London for a week or two. "At this season, with every appearance of snow setting in for weeks, and blocking up the roads! My dear Florence, you are certainly mad to think of it," exclaimed the Countess, half jesting and half in earnest. "What busi "Love? pooh! he will soon get over it," so his lordship thought, as he sat alone; "but why should I thwart him thus? Why! merciful heavens! if he knew what is consuming me that I require an heiress for him because wealth, gold, another title, may enable him to rise up against the blow which one day I know will fall, and on him, to punish his miserable, guilty father. How know I that he will inherit the rank to which he now looks forward? Iness can you have so important as not to wait a dare not call them his, for I know not who may come to claim them; and yet he believes I do not feel for him, I do not love him-the only being who saved me from seeking death by my own hand. Frank, my boy! my poor, poor boy! the truth would be his death." more favourable season? Do be advised. Strong as you think yourself, and are mentally, physically you certainly are not, and I feel inclined to lay a positive command on you to stay at home." 66 Pray do not, dearest Lady St. Maur, for indeed in this case I cannot obey you. Affairs of consequence to Minie's happiness call me to London, and must not be delayed." "Minie!" repeated the Countess, and her tone was most unusually impatient. Florence understood it. 66 And could Frank have heard the groans and sobs which followed this soliloquy, he would have been spared one bitter feeling; for he must have been convinced that he was an object of love, however strangely and mysteriously that love was proved. But he could not know this, and while more and more painfully the convic- Yes, Minie, my dear friend. Her happiness tion pressed upon him that even the small por-is now mine, all that at present, at least, is left tion of affection which he believed his father to me. Do not grudge my securing that, even had once borne him must have dwindled away though_the_manner of doing so may seem unbeneath what appeared only an increasing love wise. I cannot now explain my meaning, only of gold, his heart, wounded and suffering, trust me till my return, and you shall know clung yet more fondly to the only being on all." earth by whom he could believe himself beloved. Break from her now! dissolve his engagement! bid her, like himself, languish in all the lingering torture of hope deferred! he could not, he would not! No, did he even forget his birth, and seek some honest business which could support them both. In this mood he remained in London about four-and-twenty hours, and then galloped back to Beech Vale. It was easy, even for indifferent persons, to discover that all was not right; and There was an earnestness in her manner impossible to be gainsayed; and accepting only the escort of the faithful Ferrers, Florence set off for London, to Sir Ronald Elliot's great disappointment, scarcely ten days after her return from Woodlands. (To be continued.) 1 THE PLEA OF THE ROSE. SONGS OF THE MOUNTAIN. In a glass-encircled dome Dwelt a Rose of high degree; Rare exotics in her home Made a happy family Living all on friendly terms, Friendly mingling bloom and sweets: Blighting frost nor canker worm Penetrated those retreats; While above their crystal roof Danc'd the clouds along the sky, They from meaner flowers aloof Watch'd the garden beauties nigh. Doors into an inner room Led, whence oft in winter hours Light and music, through the gloom, Stole across the tranced flowers. One of summer's golden eves, Scant beyond the window sash, Peep'd the Rose to cool her leaves With the air; and yet 'twas rash; For a lover, musing there, Caught the incense of her breathLook'd, and spied the floweret fair, And devoted her to death! Blushing Rose, thou must not fade, Pluck'd by none, admired by few; I will bear thee to a maid, Brighter, fairer still than you! Nestling in her fragrant breast, Hid beneath her ringlet showers, Thou, enamour'd, shalt protest, She doth shame thee, Queen of Flowers!" But the Rose, with shrinking blush, Then adornment needs she less: On the spot where I was born." Bore in pride the floral gem. Faint in death, and scarcely heard. But the boding sigh intense, E. A. H. O. BY W. G. J. BARKER, ESQ. No. X. THE DYING OUTLAW. SCENE.-A rude cavern in the mountains: daylight slowly approaching. Ye lofty solitudes, majestic wild, Where tameless things by man uninjur'd dwell- From all communion with my kindred thrust, For this I mourn not. Near some solemn shrine, 'Neath fretted roof, the Baron's tomb may rise: A canopy far nobler shall be mine, Hung with unnumber'd lamps-the boundless skies. A rich man goeth to his final sleep, And purchas'd tears are pour'd upon his grave; But heav'n each eve with purest dews will steep The mountain flowers that o'er my ashes wave. I claim no requiem proud, no measur'd hymn, Through the cathedral aisle peal'd sad and high; For, when the landscape fades in darkness dim, My funeral dirge each chainless wind will sigh. The pomp of grief suits not the noble few With whom in solitude I joy'd to dwell; Cold blows the breeze upon my fever'd cheek; Once more would I behold the glorious sun Sparkling in brightness on my favourite stream; And then, my last long night of watching done, Close my tired eyes, to sleep without a dream. Ah! whither do my fleeting fancies roam? Shapes bend around me-shapes that well I know. We have been parted long; how-are ye come To take my fondest blessing ere I go? Those rosy lips-the music of that voice! 'Tis she 'tis she! restored to me at last! And now, my own, my best-belov'd, rejoice! The cloud that shadow'd our young love has past. They shall not part us more—nay, do not fear; Force shall not tear thee from my close embrace! Alas! I wander. There is no one here I am alone, and in a desert place. Ha! flashing through the gloom, what means that ray? 'Tis the first glimmer of the rising sun: I know the fated signal, and obey. My breath comes thick-life ebbs-my race is run! Banks of the Yore. TIME-SERVING. BY J. J. REYNOLDS, "List! a brief tale." KING LEAR, "What's in a name?" Nothing. Whether it be the aristocratic Villiers, or common-place Brown-the highsounding Frederick, or homely John-what matters it? It serves but as a distinguishing mark during a mortal's earthly course, and when "The little wick of life's poor, shallow lamp" is burnt out, its duty is o'er. So says the philosophic reader; but so did not say Mr. and Mrs. Dobbs. How, when, and where this came to pass, be it my purpose to unfold. Some years ago-perhaps now, for aught that I know to the contrary, the above-mentioned couple were the inhabitants of one of a row of diminutive houses dignified by the name of Clairville-terrace, in the town of L. The male, or worse half, employed his time in the collecting from each of his fellow-townsmen his individual mite towards the support of our "glorious constitution"-in plain words, he held the rather invidious office of tax-collector; and to this he united the instruction of youth, of both sexes, in the art of penmanship, as all the world (that is to say, the world of L- was informed by means of a fine specimen of caligraphy, framed, glazed, and exhibited in his front parlour window. Of the better half I need not say much, merely repeating an expression her husband himself made use of to a friend a little while after their marriage, "that she was just the woman he had been seeking to take to himself, for better for worse, ever since he felt himself in a marriageable condition." At the period of the commencement of this narrative, Providence had not blessed the duo with a child; but a few months, however, elapsed before an inheritor of the euphonious name of Dobbs appeared. It will be here necessary to inform all whom it may concern, that Dobbs had a brother-a rich brother! and, more than this, a bachelor brother!! who had arrived at an age when he was unlikely to induce one of the softer sex to link her fortunes with his, being on the shady side of fifty-five. Now between this worthy and the tax-gatherer there had arisen a coolness; the latter having married much against his brother's consent. Previous to that event, the senior Dobbs had always advised him to remain single, "if he knew when he was well off; and never plague himself with a wife" (these were his very words). But the junior had resolved on launching the matrimonial boat, and was not to be diverted from his purpose; as, in fact, few people are when they once have duly considered this weighty matter. If the one thought with Gay, that a wife is at best "a precarious blessing," the other agreed with Cowper, when he says— "What is there in this vale of life, Half so delightful as a wife?" Anticipatory of the appearance of the young stranger, Dobbs had inwardly settled, without consulting his partner on the subject, that he should be christened after this bachelor brother, since he had great expectations touching the disposal of that personage's worldly goods and chattels after death, and by way of peace-offering between them. But, unfortunately for Dobbs's peace of mind, Mrs. D. possessed a maidenaunt, proprietress of at least 2,000l. in the public funds, besides other sums at interest on the most approved securities; and it was totally at variance with her wishes that her niece had married him-"being," as the old lady was heard to remark, "a very low match, quite unworthy of the Simkins family-a blot on the name no sacrifice could wipe out." Mrs. Dobbs, therefore, from the same reasons as her lord, and by a similar process, had come to the conclusion that her first-born should be baptized "Sinkins," after her aunt. Filled with the idea, she hinted as much to Dobbs, of course expecting his entire concurrence; but, to her great surprise, received a harsh "No" in reply. His denial of the request threw her into violent hysterics--feigned or real, this deponent is unable to state; no matter which, they carried her point. Her husband taking the circumstances of the case into consideration, uttered a reluctant affirmation, and thereupon the fit passed rapidly away. I will not digress here, as I very well might, to enter into a polemical dissertation on the modern fashion of making surnames do the duty of Christian names, but at once inform the reader that when the proper time arrived, and all things were prepared the ceremony of the christening was performed, and that the young scion of the house of Dobbs received the cognomen of Simkins, as the parish |