balcony with the garden, I went; dismissed the | having a spectral look to me, and oppressing me maid, locked the door, and without a moment's with a sense of something unnatural and painful. pause descended from the window. It was past ten o'clock; a calm, clear night, moon and stars glittering against the blue darkness of a southern sky after sunset. I have a strange, vivid recollection of the garden as I passed through it, under that quiet light; it stands out, in the confused past, like some one image of a fever-dream, remembered after the delirium is over; distinct in itself, and bringing with it a vague but terrible consciousness of the forms and thoughts by which it was accompanied. I remember walking upon the smooth shaven grass lest my footsteps should be overheard; I remember the phantom shapes of the pale flowers, so gorgeous by daylight, and the fantastic regularity of the beds, and the wire arches covered with creepers, ODE TO THE BED. BY THE LATE THOMAS HOOD. Он, bed! oh, bed! delicious bed To one, a perfect Halcyon nest, Had plotted to kill them sleeping. To render our slumber more certain, Pity, pity the wretches that weep, For they must be wretched who cannot sleep, When God himself draws the curtain! The careful Betty the pillow beats, And airs the blankets and smooths the sheets, I specially remember the iron railing which skirted the garden, and which was surmounted by a row of spikes. I followed these spikes with my eye, as if they were trying to escape me, and I must needs overtake them. I even counted them with a kind of furious haste as I walked rapidly along, as though I knew the number and must take care that none were missing. I expected the line to end in something, I knew not what; and then stopped with a sudden hope that I might be going mad, and that if so I should forget what my father had told me. I reached a small side-gate, of which I had the key, passed through, and continued to walk for several hours with unabated speed on the road to There's Morbid, all bile, and verjuice, and nerves; But a child-that bids the world good night, Oh, bed! bed! bed! delicious bed! SONNET, ON CHARLES LAMB LEADING HIS SISTER TO THE ASYLUM. BY THE REV. C. V. LEGRICE AN angel's wing is wavering o'er their head, From the full heart-spring, tears o'erflowing gush; Close and more close they clasp, as if to speak Would wake the sorrows which they seek to hush. Down to the mansion slow their footsteps bend, Where blank despair is soothed by mercy's spell, Pausing in momentary prayer to send Ere the cheered sister passes to her cell, Sure in the hope that yet there will ye given Calm and sweet hours of peace-foretastes of heaven. Trereife, Cornwall, April 12. Gentleman's Magazine. CHAPTER VI.-THE SISTER'S SECRET. while sweet little Dora tried the more womanly means of soothing persuasion, and, to tell truth, SOME wiseacres argue that family affection is a I believe these succeeded the best. Perhaps there mere habit, the result of constant association, or was in the influence of an elder brother something else springing from similarity of tastes, and that appeared to Miles very like command, the therefore quite distinct from the instinct of pa- very shadow of which chafed his proud spirit to rental love, or the passion that gives rise to conju- the uttermost. I might not have been gentle gal attachment. Thus they say, brothers and sis-enough with the boy, for his nature was so opters parted for any length of time soon lose the posite to my own; but I saw that when Miles custom of loving one another, and become like yielded, and began his daily duties at the office, strangers. This seems a cold, selfish theory, but it was more owing to Dora's tears and caressing I will not argue against it, especially as in many entreaties than to my grave arguments. instances it appears only too true. That the tie of kindred, not strengthened by those qualities which command esteem, is of itself sufficient to create and maintain love, is a great mistake. But when to those family bonds are added the firmer ones of true friendship, no tie is so complete and lasting. Miles still lived with me, for I remembered my poor father's last charge, and determined that as long as they were willing, none of his surviving children should want a shelter under their eldest brother's roof. Nevertheless, after he had entered the office, I saw very little of him, for my duties as a surgeon in full practice called me much from home, and often we never met for weeks except at the early and hasty breakfast. But Miles' employers spoke well of him, and I knew that he spent his evenings with Dora, be When Margaret left us, we long missed and regretted her, but in time we learned to think of her in her happy wedded state, and she seemed no longer one of us. Perhaps this was in some measure owing to herself. After she had recov-tween whom and himself there had always subered from the acute agony which Herbert's death had evidently caused, her letters were full of her new life-a life of splendor and gayety. The brilliant wife of Colonel Worthington, with her servants and her palanquins, her richly dressed children, her gorgeous entertainments, was not our pretty Margaret playing about the meadows, singing her happy songs, and devoting herself to the care of her twin brother. Our sad change made the difference more apparent, and when, after our mother's death, which happened when she had patiently borne a few widowed years, Margaret's letters became rare, and at last totally ceased, we neither wondered nor grieved much at the circumstance. We still spoke and thought of Margaret as she had been in our childish days, and, though living, her memory seemed linked with that of the departed Herbert. A sense of independence, which would not suffer her to owe subsistence even to her brother, made Kate steadily refuse to make my house her home. She still remained in the family to whom she had at first gone; they loved and valued her, and Kate always told me she was very happy. I advanced slowly but surely in my profession; Dora, now grown into blooming girlhood, kept my house, and was a sage and skilful little maiden, the image of what Kate used to be at her age, only that in grace and beauty she was more like Margaret. Miles was my sole cause of care. He was now a tall handsome youth, high-spirited and ardent alike in good or evil. After much anxiety I had succeeded in obtaining for him a situation in a merchant's office, and with more difficulty still I prevailed on him to accept it. From his childhood the boy's delight had been in guns and pistols, and the summit of his wishes was to enter the army; but this was now out of the question. I used all arguments of reason and principle, sisted the same affection as between Kate and me. That she would guide the wayward youth of her brother in all good things, I fully trusted; indeed, she was as anxious about him as I was myself: so much so, that when the first six months of his engagement at the office were near their termination, when his salary would begin, I was not much surprised to see Dora looking pale and careworn. But she only smiled at my interrogations, told me she was quite content, and had nothing on her mind to annoy her. So I only prescribed the favorite remedies of early hours, air, and exercise, and declared my intention of sending my little housekeeper on a visit somewhere, as she must be dull at home; but she steadily refused to go. It would certainly have been a pain to me to miss her pretty smiling face, so I gave up the point without much contest. One night-or rather morning, for it was past two o'clock-I came home, and having noiselessly entered, as was my wont, I was proceeding to my own room, heartily hoping that the fire, which Dora always left burning in readiness for me, was not quite out, that I might try to get warm after the freezing night ride. On the stairs I stopped, for the door of my sister's little sitting-room was open, and I heard her voice and that of Miles in earnest conversation. I may be thought mean-perhaps I was-and yet I solemnly declare it was from a motive for which I need not blush; but the words that met my ears made me stand rooted to the spot. I could not pass on, I durst not enter the room. Miles was saying, with fierce energy, "Miles, oh Miles! God forgive you for those God-for the sake of poor Dora-never do so wicked words," she sobbed at last. wickedly again." "They shall be deeds if you do not promise this moment." "I will, I do promise; you know I have never betrayed you all these weeks, months, that I have sat up for you night after night, lest he should know how late you came home." 66 Before Miles left his sister's room, I was in my own. How my heart yearned towards that noble girl, when I met her at breakfast the next morn ing, calm and cheerful, as if she had not gone through the agonies of the previous night! I forgave her all the love-incited dissimulation which Why did you do it? I never asked you," said she had shown towards me, for the sake of her Miles, sullenly. "Because I loved you, Miles; because I knew if Bernard were angry you would not bear it, but would go away from home, and perhaps get among worse companions than you have now. And to think that you should have done this wickedness; that you should have deceived your master; that my noble, handsome, good brother should be a-" "Don't say the word, or you will kill me, Dora," hoarsely muttered the boy, and a long silence ensued. I dared not move, lest they should hear me. I hardly breathed. What was this dreadful word? At last Miles said, "Take away your arm, Dora; don't mind me any more; who cares for me now? They may come and take me to prison. Go away, and leave me. "I care for you, Miles; I will never leave you. You shall not be found out. I must think what we can do," answered Dora, speaking very quickly. "Tell me how much money you-you took away." I did not catch Miles' answer, but his sister drew a deep breath, as if relieved from a heavy weight. "And how much have you left of it?" 66 Only ten pounds." Dora went to a cabinet in her little room, and I heard the jingling of coins. "Now, Miles," she said, and her grave, earnest voice sounded fearfully solemn, " here is a hundred pounds. I saved it out of my own little earnings in painting flowers, and out of the money our kind brother allows me for dress. For what purpose I saved it," and her voice trembled a little, "is of no moment now. I will give it to you, if you will solemnly promise to do what I tell you." "Bless you, Dora, bless you," murmured the boy, in broken tones, "I do promise, I swear it." "Then go to-morrow morning to your master; he is a good man, he knew my father well, and I will not be harsh to his son. Take him the money, tell him the whole truth, and beg him not to prosecute you." noble devotion to that poor misguided boy. The fearful uncertainty of the next few days I cannot even look back upon without pain. Sometimes I thought I would tell the good merchant that I was aware of all, and add my entreaties to Dora's; but I knew the pride of Miles, and that the idea that I was acquainted with his guilt would perhaps drive him back to his evil courses. I cannot describe the relief it was when his excellent master told me that the ship would sail for Jamaica in a week, and that Miles must be ready to leave. He did leave, and never by word or look did his sister betray his sin. Many years after, when Miles had made his home in that far country, content with the certainty that he should never see England more, and when Dora was a wife and mother, I told her by what chance the story had come to my knowledge, how I had kept the secret, and would do so forever. She only answered to my warm praises and blessings with her own sweet smile. "And for all this you have never been rewarded, Dora?" "Yes," she replied, "for I have saved my brother." CHAPTER VII.- THE TRIAL. Yet BEFORE Dora had reached her twentieth year, she left my house for the home of a beloved husband, the son of my good partner, Dr. Cleveland. Her wedding reminded us too much of the day when Margaret left us, to be very mirthful. I gave my youngest sister away with the fullest confidence that she would be happy; and those hopes were realized. There was no life-long parting either, for Dora and George Cleveland made their home within a few miles of me, and uncle Bernard was, and is to this day, an equal favorite with the elder and younger inhabitants of that pretty parsonage. On the evening of Dora's wedding-day, Kate and I sat by our own fireside, and talked over old times. "But that wretch who urged me to it, he will tell. I dare not stay in this place; he would hunt" me to the death." "Then you shall go abroad. I know your master told Bernard he intended to send you to Jamaica. I will implore him to do so still." "And you will never tell Bernard ?" "I will not, if you fulfil your promise. And now, go to rest. Come to me for the money tomorrow morning, and oh! Miles, for the love of "You will not leave me again, Kate?" I said, we will live together as bachelor brother and maiden sister, now that all the young people are married and gone away." Kate smiled and consented. Her own pupils were grown up, and she was glad to find a home with me. My sister and I looked at one another by the dim fire-light. How much we had gone through, and how different we were to that happy Bernard and Kate who had been playfellows at the old home, were thoughts that doubtless passed | knew was not like my own warm-hearted sister through the minds of both, but they were not ut- Kate. tered. Kate had arrived at the late summer of womanhood; she was past thirty; the curves of her round cheek had grown sharper, and there was a look in her soft eyes as if she had seen much sorrow. Sometimes I wondered why she had not married, for surely some one must have been won by her goodness and sweetness, even though she was not dazzlingly beautiful. But she never mentioned the subject, nor did I allude to it, for it was one on which my own heart was too sore. | I had a dream once myself which no one knew; I have not spoken of it here, nor shall I, it was so long ago. It was only a dream, and like a dream it passed away, but it was the reason that, | to the surprise of all my friends and acquaintances, Dr. Bernard Orgreve, with tolerably good looks, good manners, and good fortune, at sevenand-thirty, was still unmarried. As my attentions grew more pointed, the world -our little world-began to chatter about Myra and myself. I did not care for it in the least, for I felt that I loved her with the deep affection of a man whose boyish sentiment had merged into feelings more intense and lasting. At my age no man ever loves lightly, and even now I tremble to think how strangely that girl had entwined herself round every fibre of my heart. I only waited for some trifling betrayal that might give me a chance of ascertaining her feelings towards myself, to ask her at once to be my wife. At last the moment came. She told me she was going away. A slight sigh, a glistening in her dark eye, a broken declaration of regret, seemed to declare that the parting would be painful to her. The room whirled round with me-we were in a crowded party, or I could not have repressed my feelings. I went home, determining that the next day should decide the matter-that Myra should leave behind her a rejected lover, or stay and become my Kate was sitting up for me when I reached home. She did not always share in the gayeties in which I had joined so much of late-for whose sake, my heart told me but too well. I have hitherto played more a passive than an active part in this family history, but I must now come to personal confessions. I think even now with mingled feelings of the forthcoming passage wife. in my life; but it hardly becomes a septuagenarian to indulge in such emotions. As we grow older, life becomes dim in the distance; we cast our eyes over the grand panorama of our past existence, as it is spread out before us, and wonder if we ever trod those intricate and thorny ways as sunny paths, or if it were all a delusion, and we have never been otherwise than gray-headed old men and women. Kate had been with me about a year when our little circle of society, such as a provincial town affords, was enlivened by a new face. And a very pretty one too was that of Miss Myra Vaughan, as I could not but acknowledge when she came with the old lady whose guest she was, to pay a visit to my sister. She and Kate had been old acquaintance quite intimate friends, Miss Vaughan said—at the house which had been Kate's home for so many years. I too remembered having heard my sister mention her, and therefore I was not surprised, when after a few weeks Myra Vaughan was upon the footing of an old friend in our home. And now let me describe this girl, of whom I shall have much to say. She was hardly beautiful-she had neither Margaret's dazzling bloom, nor even Kate's regular features, and yet there was something irresistibly attractive in her looks and words. She sang well, talked well, danced well, and was equally pleasing in the ball-room or by the quiet fire-side, and her manner, sometimes lively, sometimes serious, suited itself to all moods. I could not resist so many attractions; in short, I, the grave Bernard Orgreve, was in love at last, and seriously thinking of marriage. In my eyes Myra was faultless, and I was surprised, sometimes almost angry, that Kate did not seem to think so "You look pale, Bernard," she said; "you are not ill, I hope. What made you come home so early?" I muttered something unintelligible, and sat down. I felt that I ought to tell Kate, who had been for so long the sharer of my joys and sorrows, what was in my heart; that she had a right to be acquainted with the important step I contemplated, and yet I knew not how to unfold it. Her woman's feelings must long have discovered my secret, for I had often caught her earnest eye resting on Myra and myself, though she never breathed a word to me that she guessed my love. But now she evidently perceived that I had something to disclose. She came over to me, laid her hand on my shoulder, and said gently, 66 My dear Bernard, tell me what you are thinking of? you never used to have any secrets from Kate." "Nor will I now. You may have guessed what I am going to tell you." "It is about Myra Vaughan?" "Yes. She told me to-night that she is about to leave us. I cannot bear to part with her. I am going to-morrow to ask her to be my wife and your sister." I had proceeded thus far and stopped. I could not meet Kate's eye, and we were both silent for some minutes. "I had foreseen this," she said at length. "Do you think she will make you happy?" "Can you doubt it?" I exclaimed, and burst out into a lover's passionate praises, ending by an angry declaration that Kate disliked Myra through jealousy of my love for her. A tear of wounded feeling showed me how unjust I had been to my sweet sister. "Forgive me, Kate. I do not think less of Grey, whose only son had lately come into a you; but I do love her so much." "My poor Bernard! And you think she loves you? Listen to me. Women know one another's real character better than men can do. Do not be angry when I say that Myra Vaughan, graceful and winning as she is, is not worthy to marry my brother. Do not ask her, Bernard. I doubt if she really loves you, and even if you wedded her, she would make you miserable. She is gay, extravagant, heartless." "You cannot prove this. You are sorely belying my own Myra. I do not believe it," I cried in violent anger, rising to retire. Kate turned her pale sad face towards me. "Bernard, since you will not be convinced, I will tell you what, but for this, would have never passed my lips. You think I cannot understand your feelings; that I have never loved. I have; and with that love which can be felt but once, and for one. He who sought me, and wooed me when I was away from home, poor and dependent, had qualities to win any girl's heart. He told me he loved me; I believed him, and we were affianced; but a young girl came, a brilliant, dazzling coquette. She stole his heart from me, knowing him to be my betrothed, and I saw that he loved me no longer." "And what did you do, Kate?" "What every right-minded woman who loves for love's own sake, must do. I freed him from all bonds towards me; he murmured a little, but I knew that he was glad to be released. Oh, the agony of that knowledge! And I saw, too, that she who had beguiled him was only trifling with him; for he was too poor to give her the station she sought, and he was only one out of many she had won and cast away. That girl's name was Myra Vaughan." I started to my feet. It "Kate, you are deceiving yourself and me. is through bitter feeling that you speak against her, and would hinder your brother from marrying the girl he loves, because she came between you and your lover." Bitterly have I since regretted that cruel speech. Kate turned, and looked full in my face-what agony was depicted in her own! "If it be as you say, Bernard, do you not see that if Myra were your wife, Vernon Grey-I can utter his name now-would be free; that we might meet one day, and he might feel as of old towards me, for I know he did love me dearly once." And Kate buried her face with her hands, while the long-suppressed tears fell through her fingers. Oh! how this love had hardened my heart, when I could leave my own true-hearted sister in her sorrow, with only a cold good-night. I did not see Kate again until I had proposed to Myra Vaughan, and been rejected! After she was gone, the talkative old lady whom she had visited told us, with many "nods and becks and wreathed smiles," that Miss Vaughan was staying with an old friend of hers, a Mrs. large property. In two months we saw in the country paper the marriage of Myra Vaughan and Vernon Grey. As we read it, Kate and I pressed each other's hands with a mournful smile saying, "Now we must live only for one another." CHAPTER VIII. THE TRUE HEART'S REWARD. We KATE and I went on our way through life with calmness and peace. We learned to look on the past without pain, and towards the future with quiet patience. Our lot, if not perfect in happiness, was at least free from gnawing cares. loved one another with a sincerity and tenderness which years rather increased than diminished, and had now no secrets from each other; and it might be that the fatality which had blighted our hopes in the same blow, only drew us nearer together. The name of Vernon and of Myra were never uttered by us; we seldom heard them breathed elsewhere, for their home and fate were totally different from ours. We only knew that the marriage had proved an unhappy one. Five years had passed since the last sad epoch in Kate's life and mine, when I was called out one stormy March night from my warm, cheerful parlor, to attend a pressing case-a gentleman who had met with an accident in passing through the town. "Who is he?" I asked of my summoner, the waiter at the inn, who stood bowing at the parlordoor while I put on my great-coat. I was getting a middle-aged man now, and had learned to take care of myself. "He is a stranger sir; all we know is that his name is Mr. Grey." Kate changed color; she always did at the mention of that name, common though it was, and often as she heard it, but never without a thrill at her heart. I bade her go to rest, and set off to my patient. It was Vernon Grey whose sickbed I had thus, by a strange chance, been called to attend. He started when he heard my name announced, and often, even during the acute pain of setting his wounded arm, I caught his eyes fixed on my face with a troubled expression. I had been thought like Kate, and I did not wonder at his gaze. I, too, could not look upon the husband of Myra without a feeling of pain. At last, when the operation was concluded, and my patient was quietly laid on his bed, I asked if I could write to any relative to come and stay with him-Mrs. Grey? "My wife has been dead a year," he answered abruptly; "I have no relatives." And so she was dead! she whom I had loved so well-the brilliant, fascinating Myra! and her husband spoke thus coldly of her. 1 hastily bade him good night and departed, for my heart was full of the past. Myra had blighted my sister's love-she had scorned mine-yet I could not hear of her death without a pang. I went to Kate, who sat just as I had left her. |