MOTHER AND SON.

295

"Thee sees how much impatience human nature hath yet, Henry," she said. "I could not wait to see thy wife till she was ready to come to me, therefore am I here."

"And she will not be here until to-morrow," he said, leading his mother to where Rosalie stood supporting herself by her arm-chair. "The next best thing is visible." The heart of the Quakeress had but imperfectly learned the Quaker lesson; for in silence she embraced Rosalie and softly replaced her in the great chair, and in silence held out her hands to Thornton and Marion, and gave them most cordial though mute greeting. Then her hand came back to Rosalie and rested caressingly upon her head, and once again Mrs. Raynor stooped down and kissed her.

Mother," said Mr. Raynor, "you forget that Rosalie is not a Quakeress."

66

Nay surely," she said.

"Wherefore ?"

He answered only by a glance at the transparent hand on which Rosalie's cheek rested, its very attitude speaking some difficulty of self-control; but his mother understood, and removed her own hand and took the chair he had placed for her answering then his questions and putting forth some of her own. Thornton and Marion meanwhile exchanged a few words, but Rosalie said nothing.

:

"Why does thee not speak, love ?" said the Quakeress presently. Mr. Raynor answered.

"We were talking awhile ago upon your favourite theme of silence, mother. What were those lines you used to quote in its defence ?"

"It matters not, child," she said," the lines were mayhap written by one who seldom held his peace save in a good cause."

"Yet they were good, and you used to say them to me."

"It may be I had done better not," she said; "therefore urge me not to say them again.'

"You will let him say them himself?" said Rosalie. "If it liketh him," said the Quakeress. "He thinketh not with me on all points."

His hand laid on hers seemed to say those points were few and unimportant, as with a smile he said

66

"Still born silence! thou that art
Flood-gate of the deeper heart!
Offspring of a heavenly kind!

Frost o' the mouth and thaw o' the mind!'"

"Spring and winter are struggling for the mastery here tonight," said Thornton. "I wish the thaw would extend itself." No," Mr. Raynor said, "not to Rosalie's lips. Do not set her talking to-night. Let her sleep-if to that she can be persuaded."

"He hath a will-he hath a power to perform,' said Rosalie with a little smile as she rose from her seat: nor did she look to see the smile that her words called forth, although it were more than her own.

It was a pretty morning's work that Mrs. Hopper's best room saw next day, and a pretty company was there assembled. Only "their four selves" again,-with just the set-off of the grey dress and cap of the Quakeress, and the wonder and interest in every line of Hulda's little face,— with only the background of country walls and hard country faces, with no lights but the wood fire and the autumn sun. And the room had no ornament but themselves, unless the splendid red winterberries in Marion's hair. But it was rarely pretty and picturesque; and even the fact that Rosalie must sit whenever she need not stand rather heightened the effect. Mrs. Hopper said it was the prettiest sight she ever saw, and Tom Skiddy quite agreed with her, with only one reservation,-" he wouldn't say that he couldn't see a prettier."

CHAPTER XXXIX.

Behold I see the haven nigh at hand,
To which I mean my wearie course to bend ;
Vere the maine shete, and beare up with the land,

The which afore is fayrly to be kend,

And seemeth safe from storms that may offend :
Where this fayre Virgin wearie of her way
Must landed bee, now at her iourneye's end:

There eke my feeble barke awhile may stay,

Till merry wynd and weather call her hence away.-Faerie Queen.

Ir is a melancholy fact that the end of a voyage cannot be as picturesque as the beginning thereof,-whether it

be a voyage in earnest, or merely the "wearie course" above referred to. There is no momentary expectation of either storms or sea-sickness, and both are an old story. The waves do not gradually run higher and higher, but "contrariwise,”-there is very little sea on-if one may borrow a steam phrase, and the water becomes ingloriously tranquil. Unless indeed the fictional craft is to blow up with a grand explosion—and that, in Sam Weller's words, "is too excitin' to be pleasant." In fact, the voyage is over before the last chapter; and the only thing that one can do, is to pilot sundry important people over the bar and through the straits, and land them all too safe, on the shores of this working-day world.

Not that, as somebody says, "people begin to be stupid the moment they cease to be miserable;"-but still, when the course of true love, or of any other small stream, doth run smooth,—its little falls, and whirls, and foam, and voluntary beating against the rocks-its murmurs as a hard-used and thwarted individual-must of course be dispensed with. There is nothing for it, on either hand, but smooth water.

Mrs. Raynor sat alone in her library. Absolutely alone; for though the cat was enjoying himself on the rug, Mr. Penn was enjoying himself elsewhere; or it might be was attending to his duties on Long Island. Even the invariable knitting work was laid aside, and yet Mrs. Raynor busied herself with nothing else,—unless her own thoughts, or the general appearance of the room-for so might be construed the looks that from time to time went forth on an exploring expedition. With never-failing recollection she replenished the fire, even before such attention was needed; and once or twice even left her seat, and with arranging hands visited the curtains and the books upon the table. Then returning, she took a letter from her pocket and read the beloved words once more. It was all needless. The words-she knew them by heart already, and the room was ordered after the most scrupulous Quaker exactness.

The sharp edge of this was taken off by exquisite flowers, an eccentric little wood-fire, and a bountifully spread tea-table; where present dainties set off each

other, and cinnamon and sugar looked suspicious of waffles. The silver glimmered with mimic fires, the plates and cups shone darkly in their deep paint and gilding; and tall sperm candles were borne aloft, but as yet unlighted. Even the sad-coloured curtains hung in softened folds in the soft fireshine, their twilight tints in pretty contrast with the warm glow upon the ceiling. As for the flowers, they hung their heads, and looked up, and laid their soft cheeks together, after a most coquettish fashion-as if they were whispering; and the breath of their whispers filled the room. A fair, half-revealing light found its way through the bookcase doors, and rested upon the old books in their covers of a substantial antiquity, and touched up the lighter adornments of such novelties as the Quakeress or her son approved. The clock in its dark frame of carved wood went tick, tick, with the most absolute regularity, and told whoever was curious on that point that it was six o'clock.

Then Rachel appeared.

"Will thee have the candles lighted ?"

"I thank thee, Rachel, not yet."

"Does thee intend to wait tea even till they come ?" "Surely," said Mrs. Raynor. "But ye had better take tea down-stairs, if so be ye are in haste.'

"Nay," replied Rachel. "Nevertheless, it may well chance that thy waffles shall be for breakfast." And Rachel closed the door noiselessly and retired.

But while Mrs. Raynor turned her head the door was opened again as noiselessly; and when she once more looked round from a contemplation of the clock face, the very persons whom she had expected stood in the doorway. Rosalie in her flush of restored health and one or two other things, her furred and deep-coloured travelling dress looking as little as possible like a Quakeress; and Mr. Raynor, though bearing out his mother's words that he would have made a beautiful Friend, yet with an air and manner that said if he were one now it was after a different pattern.

I wellnigh thought the south meant to keep thee!" the Quakeress said as she embraced him.

66

Nay, mother," he answered smiling, "it was somewhat

CONCLUSION.

from the north that kept me, And has bloomed the while."

66

Fairer than ever! and better loved." "Than I deserve to be- -"Rosalie said.

"Thee need not speak truth after thine own fashion here," said the Quakeress with a smile, and laying first her hand and then her lips upon the fair brow that was a little bent down before her. "Does not thee know that the right of possession is enhancing ?"

And Rosalie had nothing to do but sit where they placed her, and let her hands be ungloved and taken care of; while questions and words of joy and welcome could not cease their flow, nor eyes be satisfied with seeing.

Then came tea; but Rosalie drew back from being put at the head of the table.

"That is Mrs. Raynor's place," she said.

"So I think."

"What does thee call thyself?" said the Quakeress with a quiet smile. "That is thy name now, dear child, and that is thy place."

And Rosalie was seated there without more ado; where even Rachel surveyed her with unwonted admiration of colours and uncovered hair.

66

"Mother," said Mr. Raynor, as it drew on towards eight o'clock, you must let me take Rosalie away for an hour. I know she will not rest till she has seen Thornton and Hulda."

"This night ?" said the Quakeress. "Thee will weary her."

"That is just what I am trying to prevent."

"Thee must judge for thyself, Henry,-nathless thee knows that we Friends think much of patience."

"She is patient enough," said Mr. Raynor laughing, and laying both hands on his wife's head as he stood by her chair. "So patient that she requires very particular looking after." And when the carriage came he took her away as he had said.

What a happy surprise there was! what a joyful hour of talk! How pleasant it was to see the old house again, restored from its fiery damage and with such owners. much joy, that one is tempted to wonder why nobody

So