THERE CHAPTER I. A Tale that is Ended. Gather them back, ye mighty years, Back from the graves that haunt our dreams. And the iving lost, from whose lips our names From all the faith that cleaves To the broken reeds of this changeful clime; -F. BROWN. HERE are probably few who have passed the age of childhood incapable of taking up in echo, to a greater or less degree, the feeling of these lines; few whom the past has not left in some measure subject to the mysterious power which the commonest word or tones may have on the heart. Sounds which vibrated on our hearing, only to be forgotten in the presence of the succeeding one, have perhaps stirred to its depth the soul of some one beside us; while again, when others have hurried on, unheeding A the voices which fill the air, some one among these, trivial and unnoticed by the many, has, it may be, arrested us with a spell all its own; opening, as by a magic touch, some of the shrines where are treasured memories, of which the world has seldom heard, or heard only to forget our silver shrines, far down beyond the turmoil, and the wear, and the fret-work of life, which we seldom visit, save when, secure from interruption, we can "enter in, and shut the door." Well for us if no idol have ever been enthroned there; if, remembering the overshadowing presence in which we stand, we can yet feel that it is “holy ground.” From remembrances such as these, come histories, where, mingled with forms and voices of the past, are others which have taken their places as bygone memories, leaving behind them records of rest, attained after much labour, peace after sorrow, victory after conflict. “Footprints, that perhaps another, We speak of the past of many years ago, when the interior of a room in the fashionable school of Mrs Haye, at Grantly, presented a scene full of life and animation. It was a well furnished apartment, of good size, to which a cheerful fire imparted warmth and brightness. Two lamps at opposite sides of the room gave light to several young girls, who were busily occupied. The time was about five o'clock on a cold December day, and the object in hand appeared to be packing up to go home for the Christmas vacation. Beside the fire, a little apart from the others, and evidently the eldest in the room, stood a young girl, whose appearance at once attracted attention. There was a look of pleasant cheerfulness about her, which would lead any one addressing her to expect a bright and cheerful answer. Her figure was tall and finely proportioned; dark flashing eyes, black hair, confined in neat braids over a high forehead, a mouth that spoke alike of determination and self-will, were the distinguishing characteristics of the face. The whole bearing was that of one who feared nothing, and who would say to those more timid, "Lean on me, for I am strong." She was earnestly talking to a companion, in all respects seemingly a contrast to herself. Many might pass by Adela Edgerton without noticing the sweetness and calm which pervaded her whole being; which had nothing of her school-fellow's brilliancy. Though of the same age, and nearly as tall, her figure was slight, and gave no great idea of strength; her grey eyes had none of the fire which shot from the black ones, and her chestnut hair, which was also braided, had a soft character, assorting well with her whole appearance. There was just colour enough in her cheeks to prevent the impression being conveyed of extreme delicacy; but though a casual observer would have assigned to Adela sweetness and gentleness, yet action and assistance would probably have been sought from the bright-eyed damsel whom we have placed first upon our roll of memories. It was pleasant to see them as they stood; so different, and yet with so much of promise about each. They were like two goodly trees; should their leaf wither, or should the work of their hands prosper? The one, as the young oak, sturdy and vigorous; yet the vine, that from infancy to old age needs support, the dependent vine, maketh glad the heart of man; and the light birch, that gently bendeth, has its peculiar quality of endurance; it is one of the few trees which can bear a great intensity of cold. How is it that youth feels so little the special brightness of its position? How is it that those only who have passed the spring-time of life know what it is to be young? The little child's laugh thrills us with its exceeding gladness, but its thoughts are looking to the time when childhood shall be exchanged for the rank and privileges of older years. Among the busy group we have mentioned, the happiness of not a few rested on the knowledge that their earliest days were passing by, bringing them, as they imagined, to something far better. "And so, Adela," said the dark-eyed girl, "here we are at the last day, to which we have so long looked forward; and Monsieur Pirouette has really made his last bow to us at least, and Signor Goldo conjugated his final verb; and yet, Adela, you do not seem so glad as I am to be free." "I have been here so long, Eleanor, and have received so much kindness, that it would be very ungrateful did I feel no regret at leaving many who have been so good to me; and who knows when I may ever see any of them again?" "And yet," rejoined her companion, "you only came to Grantly a short time before myself; how well I remember the first evening when I arrived, feeling so miserable; how you came forward, and asked me to sit by you, and did all you could to cheer the poor stranger." "I had felt so desolate myself, on first leaving home, Eleanor, that it seemed but natural to try and comfort another; it was a long time before I was at all happy, or thought I could like any place without mamma.' "Ah! you had one, I had none to go back to; but Adela, I want to know what Mrs Haye said to you to-day, when she sent for you, as she always does those who are leaving, to speak to them alone ?" "She said a very few words, but they were very kind; that she should like sometimes to hear of me, and was glad to think, I should be able to be |