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But to return. As they strolled onward, that beautiful Constance and that noble looking Baronet, they seemed a pair expressly formed for union in that one holy and inviolable bond, which once joined human means may never more dissever, and had not Constance's affections still lingered around her absent, her first and true-hearted lover, haunting his footsteps wherever he went, so to speak, and thus drawing her from the present to the absent; and had there been nothing on Sir Henry's part to throw a dark shadow over their marriage, they might have been, indeed, a happy and envied pair. During those rambles around the very spots which memory in Constance still held sacred to past affection and by-gone happiness, Sir Henry would plead for the absent one and invent excuses for his abrupt departure; but at the same time with a cunningness of charge and a pretended keenness of sympathy which he knew would only widen the breach, and draw that tender being nearer to himself, he would affect to deplore his blindness, to grieve over his silence, and to lament the desertion of so fair a flower. Thus in time by a seeming show of pity and generous sympathy did Sir Henry Hargrave succeed in so ingratiating himself in poor Constance's favor, that not only believing herself neglected by Edward, but that she had ceased to have any share in his affections, together with the leprosy which her new lover was perpetually but artfully distilling into her mind, she became in some measure interested in Sir Henry. She never disguised the fact from her own feelings that she did not and could not love him. Why? Oh why? His apparent disinterestedness charmed her-his seemingly delicate forbearance to press his own suit until Constance had become convinced of the falsehood of the vows of her former lover won upon her, and created for Sir Henry an interest in her bosom which gradually grew into a feeling of another shape and character; not of love it is true, for we love but once but as she rightly deemed it—of such sincere friendship, that when asked by Sir Henry to become his bride, she only referred him to Mr. Ormington, who seeing no objection, readily gave his consent to the union.

But all this, although it takes so little time to describe, was not the work of days, or weeks, but of months.

And where was the student all this while ? He had returned from travel. In the depth of his studies he was seeking consolation from what he deemed his desertion by his mistress. One vacation he spent with one friend, and another with another, anxious that he might not, by his presence, interfere with the

happiness of one whom he so tenderly loved. Fatal mistake; too blindly trusted in, too implicitly believed. Fool! fool! to forget that the world abounds with knaves of high as well as of low degree.

A twelvemonth had passed away now since that night of second separation; a twelvemonth now full of unhappiness. The love-tokens had been solicited and returned on either hand. Everything that could remind the one of the past affection of the other had, by mutual consent, been revoked. And now the day appointed for the nuptials of Constance and Sir Henry Hargrave had all but arrived.

It was the bridal eve-Constance had passed that day-the last on which she was to be her own mistress-in the way in which most such days are passed: she sat in her little boudoir. Her new dresses were lying around her, her little table was covered with the trinkets which her new lover had given herthey were more costly, but oh, no! they were not half so valued as those others which she had so often gazed upon when her heart was filled only with love to the absent one. Her library shelves were filled with the beautifully bound books which Sir Henry had placed there. Everything around her spoke of the admiration with which Constance was regarded. And to tell the truth, although Sir Henry had used means to acquire the gentle Constance for his bride, which a more ingenuous nature would have shrunk from, and a purer mind despised, he loved her as much as such a heart could love. As a friend he had been respectful and distant; as a lover constant and sincere; as a husband there was every promise that he would be affectionate and true. Constance looked around her. There was not one thing to remind her of her old and early love. No, not one! With a delicacy only to be appreciated if true, Sir Henry had succeeded in replacing those other gifts by his own, and surrounding his bride elect with things which should seem to reflect only himself.

As she thought of all the past, and as she now-when, alas! too late felt more than half convinced that she had not acted wisely in too credulously believing all that she had heard, or dismissing from her thoughts, (she could not from her remembrance,) the faithful affection which had sprung up between herself and Edward from infant years till now the age of maturity; nay, the certainty darted athwart the mind of Constance that the unkindness which had dissevered their friendship,

had been hers-and that she had not been so much sinned against as sinning.

She dwelt upon this thought-why had she never dwelt upon it so before until thought grew wild-till her conscience upbraided her till her heart smote her-doubts were growing into conviction. But now it was all too late. Had she been betrayed? was she the false and guilty thing? and Edward -but no why had he never written to her for forgiveness? but then why had she never written to him for an explanation? She was half bewildered, and in an agony of mind at the thought of what had passed, at the nameless fear and vague apprehension of what awaited her, she felt, more than is usually felt, the solemnity of her situation. We say, "more than usually" for we question if ever a woman of womanly mind and of womanly heart at such an hour however much she may see cause for joy and happiness, and however much she may admire and love her future lord, has not felt a vague feeling of dread steal over her as the thought arises that hers is henceforth to be a new existence. More women weep at the altar than smile. Is this an enigma? It needs no sophistry for its explication.

(To be continued.)

A COTTAGE PICTURE.

By Frank Curzon.

EVENING walked hand in hand with the king of day,
His golden beam on her mantle gray:

The bright deep tones of the Sabbath bell

With its fainter echo-chime rung through the dell:

The home-call of many a wandering bird

From the blossom-hid nooks of the bank was heard:

The bees were hiving with silent wing:

The glossy worms closed each velvet ring:

The flowers drew their leaves like night-robes round :

And soon that bell with its single sound

Seemed to widen its circle of hallowed ground.

They have a custom-where churches lie

In the quiet hills-'neath the quiet sky-
Of giving the bells a Psalm to chime;
And tis blesséd music in Summer-time,
At close of God's holy day to hear
This voiceless anthem far and near.

There was a Cottage in that green glen-
The humblest of the haunts of men,
With thatch where the mosses were tangled o'er,
And loaming with flowers up-train'd before;
And through their lattice, by their one light,
I saw the poor folk on this Sabbath night :

I shall never forget what my soul saw there,
For in one broad ring they were all in prayer:
There was an old man whose dwelling look
Was on the Villager's only Book-

And all were young but he-save one—

She who with him Life's path had begun

She knelt by his side and when he spoke

With thanks for her help in this world's hard yoke,

Their eyes a moment met o'er the Past,

And the blended smile to its God was cast.

Their children were round them-one, a sire

Himself with his wife and child both there,

And the hands of the little one pressed in prayer!

And there, with their heads than that child's scarce higher,
Were two or three urchins, whose features wild
Were as calm and as still as the face of that child:

And there, at the old man's other side

Was a bending girl, where Beauty's pride

Seemed so softened in love of all holy things

That she looked as if Heaven had only to guide

Her upward flight with her spirit's wings.

O how beautiful soon would the Earth become

If but upward we looked for His light on our faces,
How soon would the features recover the traces
Of what they once were, 'ere the day of our doom.

And they all arose with a song of praise
For that boon of another of God's own days;

And lip to lip and palm to palm

Came the long embrace, so warm and calm :
And thus they divided-each to his bed
With guardian angels at foot and head:
Each to rise to the morrow's doom
Of ceaseless labor from light to gloom :
Not an useless coin to gleam at or hoard :
A single fire and a simple board:
The same short sleep from night to night,
And the same hard toil in the hours of light.

As I passed the door where that song of love
Had arisen these cares and toils above,

I praised God for the Law that had given ONE Sun
The brow of the workman to shine upon;

And never a Sabbath bell I hear

With its tones so quiet and deep and clear

But I fancy each solemn chime to say,
"For rich, for all, tis a time to pray,
But let it be called the Poor Man's Day."

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