ments of the wart! And wherefore was Ebenezer thus suddenly mortified? We have said, he had taken a wife as young and fresh, and beautiful as spring. And therefore, after a short season, was Ebenezer in misery. He looked at his wife's beauty, and then he thought of his withered face-that felon wart! In her very loveliness like a satyr drinking at a crystal fount-he saw his own deformity. Was it possible she could love him? The self-put question-and he could not but ask it,—with her, alone, in bed, at board that tormenting question still would whisper, snakevoiced in his ear,-could she love him? And his heart-his heart that heretofore had been cold and blooded like a fish-would shrink and tremble, and dare not answer. True it was, she was obedient; too obedient. She did his bidding promptly, humbly, as though he had bought her for his slave. And so, in truth, he had and there had been a grave man of the church, grave witnesses, too, to bind the bargain. Verily, he had bought her; and on her small white finger-it was plain to all who saw her-she wore the manacle of her purchaser.

And Ebenezer, as his doubt grew stronger as the memory of his outside ugliness became to him a daily spectre-resolved to hide this human ware, this pretty chattel of flesh and blood, far away in rustic scenes. And therefore bought he a secluded house, half-buried amid gloomy trees-cypress and dead man's yew— and this house, in the imp-like playfulness of his soul, he called Dovesnest. That it should be so very near the Devil's Elbow was of no matter to Ebenezer ; nay, there was something quaint, odd, fantastic in the contrast: a grim humour that a little tickled him.

And thus, reader, have we at an important moment-if this small toy of a history may be allowed to have important moments -thus have we paused to sketch the owner of Dovesnest; to digress on his bachelor confidence, and his married modesty; to speak of his love, and of the demon ugliness-the wrinkles and the ever-burning wart-that perplexed it. All this delay, we know, is a gross misdemeanour committed on the reader of romance; who, when two lovers meet in misery and peril, has all his heart and understanding for them alone; and cares not that the writer-their honoured parent, be it remembered should walk out upon the foolscap, and without ever so much as asking permission, begin balancing some peacock's feather on his nose; talking the while of the deep Argus' eye-purple and green and

We see

gold, glowing at the end of it; if, indeed, it be an Argus' eye. For ourselves, we doubt the truth of the transformation. in the story nothing but a wicked parable, reflecting most ungraciously on the meekness and modesty of the last-made sex; the straitened rib. Juno, we are told, when she had killed Argus, took the poor fellow's eyes and fixed them for ever and for ever on her peacock's tail. Now, what is most unseemingly shadowed forth in this? Why, a mean, most pusillanimous insinuation that when a woman wears a most beautiful gown, she desires that the eyes of all the world may hang upon it. This we take to be the meaning of but we are balancing the feather again; and here is poor St. James bleeding on the couch whilst stony-hearted theorists that we are!-we are talking of peacocks. And yet, there is much human bleeding going on in the world, the hemorrhage altogether disregarded in a foolish consideration of the world's peacocks. We do not sin alone. There is great comfort that we have large fellowship in our iniquity.

And now to return to St. James; although, be it understood, we make no promise not again to balance the feather. Certainly not we may do it again, and again, and again. And for the reader, why, if he wants a tale of situation-that is, a story wherein people are brought bodily together, sometimes that they may only knock one another down, and then separate-why, in such case, the reader had better drop the book like a dead thing, and wait philosophically for the pantomimes.

Mrs. Snipeton-(such was the name which, among the other wrongs Ebenezer, the money-merchant, had committed upon the young and beautiful creature who knelt at the side of St. James)-Mrs. Snipeton-no; it will not do. We will not meddle with the ugly gift of her husband: we will rather own an obligation to her godfathers and godmothers.

Clarissa-(now we shall get on)-Clarissa still knelt at the side of St. James; and even Mrs. Dorothy Vale marvelled at the whiteness of her mistress's cheek-at the big tears that rolled from her upraised eyes-whilst her lips moved as though in passionate prayer. "God bless me!" said Mrs. Vale, "I don't think the young man's dead, but-oh, the goodness! what a pretty couch his wound will make! Ha! people have no thought, or they 'd have taken him into the kitchen. He'll be worse than five pound to that couch if a groat. You can get out anything but blood," said Mrs. Vale, with an evident disgust at the ineffaceable fluid. "If it had been wine, I shouldn't have cared.'

He's dying! He's murdered-his blood is on my head! cried Clarissa, as Mrs. Wilton returned to the room.

"Be tranquil; pray be calm," said Mrs. Wilton in a tone of something like command that, but for the misery of the moment, could not have escaped Clarissa; for Mrs. Wilton was only housekeeper at Dovesnest. "He will be well-quite well. I have despatched Nicholas for the surgeon; though I think I have skill sufficient to save the fee." And this she said in so hopeful a tone, that Clarissa languidly smiled at the encouragement. "You will leave the gentleman with me and Dorothy. We will sit up with him."

"No," said Clarissa, with a calm determination, seating herself near the wounded man.

66

No."

"Mrs. Snipeton!" cried the housekeeper in a tone of mixed remonstrance and reproach.

"My husband being absent, it is my duty-yes, my duty"repeated Clarissa, "to attend to the hospitality of his house."

"Hospitality," repeated Mrs. Wilton; and her cold, yet anxious eye glanced at Clarissa who, slightly frowning, repelled the look. "As you will, Mrs. Snipeton-as you will, Mrs. Snipeton," and the housekeeper gave an emphasis to the conjugal name that made its bearer wince as at a sudden pain. “There is no danger now, I am sure," she continued; washing the wound, whilst the sufferer every moment breathed more freely. At length, consciousness returned. He knew the face that looked with such earnest pity on him.

"Clarissa-Clarissa!" cried St. James.

"Be silent-you must be silent," said Mrs. Wilton, with somewhat more than the authority of a nurse-"You must not speak -indeed, you must not-you are hurt, greatly hurt and for your own sake for more than your own sake "-and the lips of the speaker trembled and grew pale-" yes, for more than your own sake, you must be silent.'

"All will be well, sir," said Clarissa; "trust me, you are in careful hands. The doctor will be here, and—”

"Nay, I need none, fair lady," answered St. James; "for I am already in careful hands. Indeed, I know it-feel it."

"Oh, you must be silent-indeed you must," urged Mrs. Wilton imperatively; and then she added in a voice of sorrow, and with a most troubled look,-" otherwise you know not the danger-the misery that may befal you. Mrs. Snipeton," and again she

turned, with anxious face towards Clarissa, "Dorothy and I can watch."

Clarissa made no answer; but gravely bowed her head. Mrs. Wilton, suppressing a sigh, spoke no further; but busied herself with her patient's wound, whilst Clarissa and St. James mutely interchanged looks that although they heeded it not-went to the heart of the saddened housekeeper.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE hall clock had struck five. The beauty of a spring morning was upon the earth. The sun shone into the sick man's room; green leaves rustled at his window; and a robin, perched on the topmost branch of a tall holly, sang a song of thankful gladness to the world. Clarissa, who had watched all night, walked in the garden. How fresh and full of hope was all around her; how the very heart of the earth seemed to beat with the new life of spring! And she, who was made to sympathise with all that was beautiful-she, who was formed to dwell on this earth as in a solemn place, seeing in even its meanest things adornments of a holy temple; vessels sacred to the service of glorifying nature;-to her, in that hour, all around was but a painted scene; an unreal thing that with its mockery pained her wearied heart; yearning as it did for what lay beyond. Who could have thought-who had seen that beautiful creature-that she walked with death? And yet, with no eyes, no ears, for the lovely sights and sounds about her, she walked and talked with the great Comforter. Her look was solemn, too; as though caught from her companion. Her eye was full and clear; and now gleaming strangely as with the light of another world.

she would press her forehead with her small thin hand, as though to sooth its misery; and now she would look clouded and perplexed; and now, so sweet a smile of patience would break into her face, that it was to wrong her nobleness to pity her. still-as we have said-she talked with death.

St. James lay in a deep sleep. been left alone-his door unclosed.

And

For a few moments he had
With soft, but sudden step,

a man entered the apartment. It was Ebenezer Snipeton. He had slept half-way on his journey from London; and rising early

had ridden hard that he might surprise his solitary wife with a husband's smiles at breakfast. The morning was so beautiful that its spirit had entered even the heart of Ebenezer; and so, he had ridden, for him, very gaily along. Yes; he was touched by the season. He felt or thought he felt-that there was something under the blue sky, something almost as good as ready gold. He looked with a favourable eye upon the primroses that lighted up the hedge-sides, and thought them really pretty: thought that, when all was said, there might really be some use in flowers. Once, too, he checked his horse into a slow walk, that he might listen to a lark that sang above him, and with its gushing melody made the sweet air throb. He smiled too, grimly smiled, at the grave cunning of two magpies that, alighted from a tall elm, walked in the road, talking-though with unslit tongues—of their family's affairs; of where best to provide worms for their little ones; of their plumage, sprouting daily; of the time when they would fly alone; and of other matters, perhaps, too familiar to the reader, if he be parental. And Ebenezer thought nothing was so beautiful as the country; as, in truth, other men like Ebenezer may have thought at four or five in the morning but then as 'Change hours approach, the romance fades with the early mist; and at 10, A.M., the Arcadian somehow finds himself the scrivener. Thus, too, the early rising man of law-suburban lodged may before breakfast feel his heart leap with the lambkins in the mead. But breakfast swallowed, he journeys with unabated zeal, inexorable to the parchment.

And Ebenezer, as he rode, determined henceforth to look on everything with smiling eyes. Yes: he had before always looked at the wrong side of the tapestry. He would henceforth amend such unprofitable foolishness. He had all to make man happy; wealth, a lovely wife, and no gout. To be sure, there were a few things of former times that-well, he would hope there was time enough to think of them. Of them, when the time came, he would repent; and that, too, most vehemently. And so Ebenezer forgot his wrinkled face; almost forgot the wart upon his nose. And Clarissa loved him? Of course. It was not her nature to be impetuous: no; she was mild and nun-like; he had chosen her for those rare qualities, but she loved him as a meek and modest gentlewoman ought to love her husband. This sweet conviction brought Ebenezer to his court-yard door. It was open. Well, there was nothing strange in that. Nicholas, of course,