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smiled upon her husband, and she strove to look glad before the crowd, and in a firm though weak voice she uttered the responses. It is true she gave a hurried and anxious glance round the sacred edifice as she passed to the altar. But whoever she sought or whatever came within the glance of her eye, it rested not on anything to disturb the ceremony or interfere with the sacrifice she was making.

And the greetings were over, and the blessing was given, and the bride and bridegroom were borne away to spend the honeymoon in a distant place. And what a theme for reflection is here. Alas! how strange a principle is love, how inexplicable, how unfathomable. Child of the heart, born of sympathy and fed upon imaginings—it is nurtured in concealment and called into existence by a sigh, a smile, a tear. It has in it something linked to old Chaldaic mystery, for oftentimes it will seem to!! scan the heavens as if to read therein some presage of its fate. In flowers and trees, and in the stars it finds companionship and friends, though mute they be, for by the force of its own alchymy it can endow them with thoughts, and speech, and feelings kindred to itself, whilst from their tongueless lips it draws forth similes and smiles. And woman's heart and woman's love, who shall tell the depths of beauty's passionate yearning, or who recount their changes or the causes of their change. Whilst loving and beloved by one had Constance bestowed her hand upon another.

When the ceremony had been performed, and the newly wedded pair had taken their departure—then, and not till then, Edward, who had declined to be present at the nuptials, returned to the house of his boyhood. And oh what a change had come over him. It was painful to observe the inroads which secret sadness struggling within him had made upon his health and constitution. His eye once full of fire, and flashing with intelligence was now vacant and dull. His cheek formerly ruddy with the bloom of health had grown wan and wasted. His step once so fleet and firm had lost all its elasticity. His conversation, too, which had been noted for its cheerfulness and animation was now of a desponding and cheerless character, and so absorbed had he become in his own moody thoughts withall, that he would, if not aroused, sit with objectless gaze for hours as if holding sad and mournful commune with his innerself. His thoughts were ever on the future, but they never imparted animation from any bright remembrance of the past; and if he walked abroad he would seek where ruin lay hid among

weeds and flowers-spots sacred and hallowed from the cherished remembrance of their former beauty and greatness. There was a painful association in the mind of Edward between his own history-the history of his love-and these ruins. "When may we be at peace," he would murmur when no ear was listening, "in yonder heaven of happiness where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. How long must we be chained to our mortality-the heart out-eaten by the canker worm of care?"

On one lovely evening, the counterpart of many that Edward and Constance had together drunk in hope and inspiration, as they sat conversing on the by-gone, and formed joyous anticipations for the future, on such an evening when the stars in their manifold beauty shone on their love and truth, Edward and Mr. Ormington wandered down together to the old summerhouse; and as Edward looked upwards to where the stars were brightly shining as of old-"the big bright tear" gathered slowly, grew heavier and brighter, and fell seemingly unheeded, to be followed by another and another. Oh, is there not something piteous in the extreme in beholding the proud heart of a man melting in silent grief, its blood blanching into dew and watering, as if to keep green the leaves of its immeasurable anguish ? how speak they of the desolation of the soul-of pain too deep for words. Such tears are the silent wail of unutterable woethe memento mori of fond hopes fled, of heart-joy withered, of peace overthrown, of happiness for ever lost. The remembrance that he had been the destroyer of his own peace seemed strong within him, and painfully he felt the force of the Poet's language

"Oh love what is it in this world of ours

Which makes it fatal to be loved-Ah why

With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers,

And made thy best interpreter a sigh

As those who doat on odours pluck the flowers

And place them on their breast, but place to die—
Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish
Are laid within our bosoms but to perish"

Mr. Ormington gently reproved his grief, "Hath heaven but one gift? earth but one flower? love but one stream?" Edward shook his head mournfully as he replied, "Heaven hath but one sun; earth, yes earth hath many flowers; but man-to him is given a heart that broken may never more be healed."

"But will you," rejoined Mr. Ormington, "thus cherish a

passion which now is criminal. I know that it is hard to teach forgetfulness, and yet it is the lesson our duty sometimes bids us learn."

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why

"And have I not asked myself," was the rejoinder, love may not be crushed, like some withered and senseless leaf, when its beauty and its fragrance are gone? But passion ever mocked me with the repetition of its echo. Let love but once take root within the heart, there it will linger, though the roots seem dead, as ivy twines about the ruined tower for bats and owls to nestle in."

"There is no instinct like the heart,

The heart which may be broken: happy they!
Thrice fortunate! who of that fragile mould,
The precious porcelian of human clay,
Break with the first fall: they can ne'er behold
The long year linked with heavy day on day
And all which must be borne and never told
While life's strange principle will often lie
Deepest in those who long the most to die"

After much persuasion Mr. Ormington and Edward left home on a continental tour which the former had for some time premeditated. Within a week from this time they had quitted England en route for Vienna.

CHAPTER VI.

The year was in its fall-the corn had been gathered into the garner the sallow and seared leaves were fast dropping from the trees, and the scene stretching far and near presented sundry premonitions of the approach of winter. Once more Mr. Ormington returned to the lodge, but Edward remained abroad. Letters from England had obliged Mr. Ormington to return home, and amongst them was one from Constance. There was something painfully touching in its tone, Sir Henry had suddenly quitted England, her own health having become impaired. She was too ill to travel far, and she was then residing at the old family mansion in a distant country. Mr. Ormington immediately set out upon this new journey, and after a tedious ride reached Hargrave hall. He was forthwith shown into the magnificent library, the repertory of the lore of ages, a treasurehouse which it had been the work of centuries to fill. The books were arranged in carved oak cases, extending from the

floor to the ceiling, and the height of the room was relieved by a light and elegant gallery. In niches and on pedestals were placed busts of the philosophers and poets of old. In the centre of the room was a large ottoman, covered with purple velvet and fringed with gold. Around the room stood couches and fauteuils covered with the like luxurious material. In a sort of balcony, which was closed in on all sides with stained glass, and to which access was obtained through a pair of large folding doors, was a marble fountain, around which the graces, with fawn and naiad were gathered in classical groups. The pellucid stream, forced upwards to a considerable height, and falling again within the circle of the fountain, threw its sparkling spray upon these figures, and in the sunlight seemed shedding gems around. The murmuring music of the water, and the whisper of the low wind, as it sighed among the exotics with which the delicious conservatory was filled, or as it breathed now with louder, yet still soft, intonation through the strings of an Æolian harp, stole sweetly over the senses.

And in the midst of this luxury and refinement, daily and hourly sat Constance, the queen of an earthly paradise. If mere wealth might give birth to a single principle of happiness, it might have been thought that the mistress of such a place must be supereminently blessed. Knowledge. vast and varied, was stored up around her. She was begirt, as it were, with the records of all that is stupendous in science, wonderful in art, and sublime in philosophy; nor were the stirring pages of the historian, the orator, or the poet wanting to complete the classic array. On every side the mighty dead sprang into new life in the memorials of their faith and the records of their genius. Nor was this the only source of attraction, for as it had been touchingly remarked, "there is a charm about a favorite spot that has been printed by the footsteps of departed beauty, and consecrated by the inspirations of the poet ;" and such had this been for long ages past.

Constance was not there then, however, and Mr. Ormington mechanically took up a volume of the Sonnets of Petrarch, which appeared to have been hastily laid aside. The book was unclosed at that touching poem wherein the bard is mourning for the loss of his Laura, and which commences :—

"Ov'é la fronte, che con picciol cenno

Volgea 'l mio core in questa parte, e'n quella ?"

Some of the words were underlined, and in the margin of the

book opposite to this lay, in a feminine hand were pencilled these words," Petrarch, thy song is sad and unkind. It pains too much to please, for although it may freshen shrivelled feelings in recalling the past, it nevertheless brings gushing from their sacred font, the withered heart's fond tears."

Ah, who hath loved and wept not at love's chronicles when plaintive note of melting melody or train of kindred thought hath awakened in the mind the memory of the past. The memory of that past had doubtless in this instance distilled a tear, for the traces of one were on the page. As with a sigh Mr. Ormington replaced the book, his eyes lighted upon the first leaf which bore an inscription in Edward's hand writing. It had been a love token, and as such had been treasured and pored over. It was twilight when Mr. Ormington had reached the hall, and now as he passed to the picture gallery there was thrown on all around that uncertain shadow which while it detracts from the lustre of the highly wrought painting, lends increased softness to the more subdued. He paused for a moment to notice one which in particular attracted his attention a picture of peculiar loveliness and upon which the departing gleam of day was thrown with almost magical effect when a heavy, half suppressed sigh, fell upon his ear; that sigh, we all know well, of sorrow long endured, a heartexpression born of grief and cradled in despair. Mr. Ormington turned and perceived Constance bending over a picture which was placed, so that it caught a similar softness of light and mellowing tint to that upon which Mr. Ormington had himself previously been gazing. From her manner it was evident that the canvass revealed some story of the heart. The recognition between Constance and Mr. Ormington was mutual. It was the same Constance-but, alas, how changed! And long and anxious was the conference between that timehonored man and that young but withering beauty; and when Mr. Ormington departed, it was with a clouded brow and a heavy heart.

(To be continued.)

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