the heated excitement, are preying upon her sister's health, she thinks. Would she not be happier in their old quiet home? Oh, yes! she will return, will she not? and all will be as before the peaceful walks, the happy tranquil evenings. "And our dear father misses your sweet voice, darling; you know how he loves to hear you sing; and now it seems so strange never to hear the old songs. And the little children at the school they all ask, every Sunday, if you will soon come and see them again?"

Geraldine does not answer; her face darkens; her lips grow quite white sometimes; Madeline draws her closer to her own pure bosom, and bursts into tears.

and

So the months pass away; Lady Roseville is still disconsolate for the nightingale.

Ar last the Rosevilles are returning to London for the season. Lady Rose. ville says she cannot part with Geraldine; old Parson Rushbrook shakes his head. To the surprise of everybody, Geraldine herself begs hard to be allowed to accompany Lady Roseville to town.

Madeline opens

her large blue eyes very wide; her father is vexed and disappointed; he is loath to consent; Madeline intercedes, with a heavy heart; - at last it is agreed to that Geraldine shall go for a short time. Once more the sisters part. Madeline looks long and mournfully at her sister, through her tears; she cannot read the look in Geraldine's eyes; she sighs heavily, as they wave their hands, and the heavy travellingcarriage rumbles and rattles out of sight along the dusty highway. Then her father comes up to her, with red, tearful eyes; and so she smiles again her old sweet, quiet, unwavering

smile.

Time passes. The hollyhock grows tall in the little garden of the quiet parsonage; the green sheaths fall off the lilies, and the snowy buds rise, folded, on their stately stalks, like spindle-heads of whitest wool; the meadow is a-blaze with buttercups; the grass waves, long and green; and, by-andbye, the mowers whet their scythes amongst it, and sing cheerily on the fresh summer mornings. Ап осса

sional letter from Geraldine - short, hurried, with an unnatural effort at gaiety, and different from her usual style is the only event that marks the quiet months, as they deepen to the heart of summer, in that still place.

These letters throw a painful sadness over the evening conversations of the old man and his daughter, as they sit in the little ivy porch, and talk of her who is absent. At last even these letters cease, and Madeline's long, tender, reproachful expostulations remain unanswered. The old clergyman has grown greyer lately, and his sight is getting dimmer than it used to be. Eschylus remains upon the shelf; and Moscus and Bion, he never looks at them now; the Greek character, he says, hurts his eyes; but the old black family Bible, with the silver clasps, is oftener open on the table, and sometimes the sacred page is blotted by a tear. At last there comes a letter from Geraldine, full of tender apologies; she had been unwell for many days, and unable to write; but is now, thank God, she says, quite recovered. And they are not to be alarmed; it was only a passing indisposition, brought on, she thinks, by a cold, caught some time ago. She is quite well, and very happy, she adds.

The old man shakes his head, and

looks wistfully at his daughter; Madeline is growing a poor consoler, her heart is so heavy. Then they write to Geraldine long letters; Madeline's are crossed and blotted the parson's precise and scholarlike hand is shaky and almost illegible. They entreat her to return to the fresh country air, and the quiet fields, and to their anxious hearts. And weeks pass by, and no answer; and other weeks, and other letters, and still no answer.

Then comes a letter from Lady Roseville. The dear child, she regrets to say, is very unwell; she has had the best medical attendance to be found in London; there is no cause for the least alarm; the doctors all agree that it is merely a nervous attack from which she is suffering; but she is too weak to be moved yet. She is very anxious to see her sister; the dear child has such an affectionate heart. Lady Roseville has sent her own maid and a man-servant to

-, to accompany Miss Rushbrook, if she will come up to town; and she trusts sincerely that Geraldine will soon be able to return with her.

What can Madeline do ?-she tries to hide her own fears, and put on a hopeful face.

"We will go together," says her father; he says nothing more.

66

The next day Lady Roseville's servants appear at the parsonage. My lady's lady has a letter for Miss Madeline, which she delivers mysteriously; it is from Geraldine. When Madeline is alone in her own room, she opens it with a trembling hand. It contains but a few words, hurriedly written :-" Madeline, dear Madeline, come to me; my heart is breaking." That is all the letter says. The poor girl hides it in her bosom, and sinks upon her knees by her pure bedside. The old man steals into the room, and touches her. "Let us send away these servants," he says; "we will go together."

The broad day is dying slowly out over royal London. The trees in the park wave fresh and green above the dust; the bright harness of innumerable passing carriages blazes and twinkles between them; little boats dart here and there, and skim the flashing Serpentine. On the hither side, the long green slopes are populous with fair equestrians. Up Rotten-row go and come the splendid equipages, glowing with busy, beautiful faces; boys are

flying kites upon the hills: and nursery-maids, with little children, tread down the dusty daisies, in the distant fields high up; dyspeptic statesmen amble forth on slow, sure horses, and brood over the coming night's debate. The ambassador's brougham is just turning the corner of Downing-street; the great man pulls the check-string suddenly" Mon Dieu! there is C! Ah! ha! comment ca vat il, mon cher Comte ?"

"I leave town this evening," says the Count.

"Indeed!"

"I am sick of London, and am going to try the waters at Ems; I hear wonders of them."

They shake hands, and on goes the brougham. Smart cabriolets, with bushy-headed foreigners and languid life-guardsmen inside them, are trotting homeward, or standing at the club-doors.

A dusty hackney cab draws up before a fine house at Grosvenor-gate. It is Lord Roseville's mansion. The street is strewn with straw; the knocker on the door is muffled; the blinds are drawn in the windows; idlers as they pass by look at the dark house with curiosity. A sleek and soft-eyed man in black, with black kid gloves, no shirt-collar, and lanky hair, is sliding out of the door. Madeline and her father reel up the steps, with tottering feet. They inquire nothing, but pass the speechless servants in the hall, and mount the stairs in silence. The drawing-room door is open; the drawing-room is empty and dark; they pass from room to room, and see no one. Again they mount the upper stairs; all the rooms are open, save one; they totter towards it instinctively. They push open the door; the room is dark, but one stray ray of fading yellow light steals through the shutter, and is splintered upon bottles and glasses that stand upon the table and the drawers; the stifling smell of sickness is heavy in the air. There is a bed in the middle of the room; the curtains are drawn quite close about it. A woman is sitting on the floor beside it; her head drooped—it is Lady Roseville. They creep to the other side of the bed; the old man pulls aside the curtain, and peeps through. Madeline does not raise her eyes from the ground, but her hand is tight upon her heart. Then the father

sits down in the empty chair by the bed-side, quite silently, and the daughter kneels beside him. The door creaks; and the soft-eyed man in black slides in, with a measure in his hands. Lady Roseville shudders, and waives him back; and he slides out

again, with an humble smile and a low bow. Silence, unbroken-stifling; not a sob—not a word. At last Lady Roseville draws the hand of Madeline between her own, and bursts into tears; but the two others remain tearless, and quite still.

"SHE shall not, I say," says Lord Roseville. His voice is husky, and there is a tear in his eye.

"I have been crying too much; I am too ill to quarrel about it," says his wife.

"Her dust shall not stifle and reek in a London burial-ground; she shall go down to ; and her grave shall be among the grasses, near her own still home in the little churchyard."

"If you think they can bear the journey," suggests my Lady; "they will not speak, or eat, or anything else. Oh, Roseville! I wish we had never brought her here."

"Most of your good wishes, madam, unfortunately come too late," says her husband.

"I shall never survive the dear child's loss, and you will kill me, Roseville." Her ladyship wiped her eyes, and fluttered her handkerchief as she said it.

"For God's sake," cries her husband, " forget your cursed affectation of sentiment, and be genuine, if you can be so, for one moment."

Lady Roseville turns deadly pale, but says nothing.

The father and daughter were led out of the chamber of death. Through the silence of the next room, they could hear, knock by knock, the nails being driven into the coffin.

Geraldine Rushbrook was buried in the churchyard of

It is useless to describe the effect of long-surviving grief.

Madeline had discovered amongst some papers in Geraldine's desk, a little journal, in which the poor girl had attempted to describe some of her feelings. It was begun, as was apparent from the dates, at Milverton, and continued up to within a week of her death. It seems that she died in sleep, quite suddenly. She had gone to bed, feeling better than usual, but complaining of great drowsiness. The next morning she did not appear at break

fast. Hours passed away. Lady Roseville began to be alarmed, and went into Geraldine's room to inquire if she felt unwell-she found her dead.

Portions of this journal I shall now read you, because it will explain, better than I can myself do, much of what was strange and mysterious in the conduct of Geraldine.

Morton read to me the greater part of the journal; it was somewhat vague and incoherent; it dealt less with facts than thoughts; it described a change of feeling—a new sadness; it spoke much of one person who would seem to be the cause of this, and whose name it was not difficult to guess from the context; it spoke of petty harassments without, of great inward grief; it was full of self-accusations, the poor girl lamenting bitterly over her own ruined heart and her lost peace of mind; here and there were snatches of poetry, of which Lady Roseville used to say, "the dear child had a talent that way." Parts of the journal it is in my power to transcribe, and I shall now do so :

Extracts from Geraldine's Journal.

Milverton,day, 18-A shudder comes across me when I think how great a change (how imperceptible, yet how great !) must have taken place in me, that I should bear to write, even in secret, these poor thoughts, which but a week or two ago I dared not confess even to myself. Yet it seems that I must speak, or my heart would break; and I have none to speak to but myself. How bitter is the difference from the old time, when I had not a sorrow that I could not share with all the world. Now I cannot speak even to Madeline; yet she would pity me, I know; but I cannot -cannot speak to her, all is so changed. Have I really left my old self so far behind?

--day, 18-Ah, why did he so fix me from the first with that look? He,

the spoilt darling of the world; all that men admire, that women love. What can he want with me? What can I be to him? I-so dark, so low, so foolish!

-day, 18-Is not this wrong? Have I allowed myself to think of him so often? And yet I know not if even one solitary thought of me has ever crossed his idlest hour. Yet that look, that voice, that seemed to say so much. No, no! I must not think even this. There is no hope any way. No hope. Beat not so loudly, poor heart. There is no hope for thee-lie still!

--day, 18-I hear them talk; I know not what they say. I seem to be walking in a dream; all things only shadows; I-most a shadow. Then some one speaks to me; and I know that it is he that I have been thinking of all this time.

-day, 18-Last night they prais ed him; they all spoke of his wit, his talents, his charm of manner. Lady R-- appealed to me. I could not answer. How foolish I am! How should he ever think of me?

-day, 18-He was talking to her when I came into the room; he danced with her afterwards; he held her hand; she looked so proud. He bent down low, and whispered in her ear, as he led her to her seat. Her colour changed. How wrong of me to observe all this. What is it to me? How I am changed. Oh, that I had never, never, seen him!

-day, 18-Yes, she is beautiful; all men praise her; it is no wonder. But all is wrong. Can I look upon these things unshamed? I start; but I should have fled before. God forgive me! God lead me back again.

-day, 18-I have read till the page is blistered over with tears; but the words seem to smite me rather than console; in all, I read my own rebuke. "He leadeth his sheep by the still waters of comfort." A voice hisses in my ear, "Ay, but this is not spoken to thee. They followed him. Go thine own ways." my God, am I indeed forsaken, and given over? The lamp is burning out; I cannot write; my eyes ache, yet I shall not sleep to-night.

-day, 18-They were all about him with praise; he seemed the soul of all the cynosure of eyes to-night. They said he was never more brilliant. He did not look at me once. I sat VOL. XLIV. NO. CCLX.

down in a little corner, and watched him all the evening; my heart was so heavy. He would not look at me. "How should he think of me?" I said. Then he turned suddenly round. He seemed to see me for the first time. He looked so surprised, so happy; he came near, and sat down beside me. My heart beat so loud that I feared lest all the room should hear it.

"Will you not speak to me?" he said. He said, "I am sick of these solemn humbugs, these shadows of life. Speak to me, you my sole reality." O the change, the happiness, the foolish pride! He sat near me all the rest of the evening. She looked angry, I thought, as she bid me good night. Is it wrong to be so happy? Ah, once I knew what is right and wrong; it seemed so easy to be good! now all is confusion.

-day, 18-Madeline is coming; I dread to meet her.

-day, 18-Sometimes at dinner I feel obliged to look at him. I look up; that bright, earnest eye is fixed on mine. I dare not meet it; at times I feel impelled to go towards him. I rise, my steps falter, then I remember myself suddenly, and return. All is so strange. This cannot be love; it is not what I have heard love described to be. It is something else—but what? I feel myself the sport of some strong invisible power, which it seems impossible to resist. What is it? God help

me-save me.

-day, 18-To-day he met me; he looked sad. "I have been harassed to death," he said, "by that woman." I knew whom he meant, and shuddered. "Ah, why," he murmured-"why is there no one in the world like you?" Can I believe all this? Yet his voice trembled, and he seemed so sad.

--day, 18-Sometimes when he speaks to me I am terrified. He seems to see all things so differently from the way I have always looked at them. He speaks so highly of what is wrong, so mockingly of what is good, I cannot find out what he really believes in. When I try to speak to him seriously on these things when I implore him to be more earnest-he only sighs, and says that he does not wish to disturb my faith. He seems to have none of his own

this is terrible. Why do I let him influence me? I feel myself sinking, and have no power to raise a hand.

No! it is not love! -not love? What, then?

——day, 18—Last night, as I sat alone in my room, a strange sensation seized me, unaccountably horrible. I felt drawn to the door; it seemed as though some one were pulling me out of the room. I could not sit still. I walked across the room, and opened the door; I felt drawn up the corridor. Horrible! I clung to the door-handle, and dropped upon my knees, and prayed. The feeling passed away

-day, 18" Dream of me," he said, when he bid me good night. "I am jealous of your dreams. Ah! that it were mine to watch them!" This is infatuation; I think I am going mad.

-day, 18 Madeline came today; her tears fell upon my hand like drops of burning lead. What am I doing? O my head, my head!-how it aches!

-day, 18 Madeline has been here. Oh, that I should shrink from her! I felt so guilty, it seemed that I should pollute her. All is ruin and loss for me in life. And once I was like her!

Then follows more, which I need not detail. It speaks of the ungenerous manner in which the person above mentioned seems to have made use of his power over the poor girl, in displaying it on all occasions in public; of strange sensations, growing daily more oppressive; unaccountable drowsiness at times, languor, and heart-burning;

of sudden fits of restlessness, and the feeling of being drawn in different directions, as though by an invisible hand.

Then the dates change, and are written from London. Here mention is made of Lord Roseville. It seems that Geraldine has at last been so little able to conceal the strange influence exerted over her, that Lord Roseville has been induced to speak to her about it-to inquire, to advise, to remonstrate; that this has been done with kindness, but that she feels hurt and wounded by it.

I shall now only quote one other passage in this journal. It is the last, dated only a few days before her death, and runs thus::

London-day, 18-Yes! I am resolved. All is over- the weary, weary struggle! It is useless to strive any more. I will obey him; I have no longer any power to refuse. Farewell, Madeline, sweet sister; and you, dear, dear father-dear to the last; so loved, so wronged! My heart breaks in this long, last farewell! and the still old happy days, and the quiet garden walks, and our old home, and the smiling village faces, gone for ever!

All is dark- a long, uncertain future strange lands-a doubtful hope -an undying, sorrowful memory!

Smile, sad faces! Hands wave, and beckon me from the ghastly future years; I come to you. I will follow him; but I would to God that I might die to-night!

SILURIA, dear reader, is not the title of a fashionable novel, headed by the newly-coined name of its heroine; neither is it an account of any far-away district in or near the seat of war. We do not in this article intend to analyse for you the subtly-depicted character of any gentle and romantic specimen of feminity; nor to introduce you to any hitherto unknown race of interesting semi-savages; nor to affright your soul by graphic descriptions of scenery, or horrible adventures of travel; nor even to amuse you by the plan of a cam

paign, or other martinet discussions of the tented field. Siluria means simply, a district on the borders of England and Wales, which was formerly inhabited by a tribe of ancient Britons, whom Roman authors speak of under the name of Silures. Shropshire and Herefordshire, Montgomeryshire and Radnorshire, may be taken as the main part of this district.

This tract of country is one of the most beautiful and diversified, and one of the most pleasant and enjoyable, portions of the British Islands. It has,