A cold shiver passed over her whole frame, as this sight instantly connected itself with the actual position in which her husband stood: she made a strong effort, however, to surmount her terror, and the involuntary pause it had occasioned, determining at all risks to ascertain what caused the presence of these persons, and their unwarrantable mode of entrance. She continued her course rapidly towards the spot; all fears for herself vanished before those which momentarily increased for Rosemadoc. Was he not her husband? Such was her anxious preoccupation, that she heard not the precipitated gallop of a horse, until it was so close upon her that she only saved collision by springing aside to let it pass. Pass it did; but its rider suddenly turning round, Sauvegrain appeared before her astonished eyes! "I am quite aware, madam, which way your footsteps turn, and by all the powers you take not another onwards," he furiously exclaimed. "But this once, sir; and if you desire it, it shall be the last!" "Neither this, nor any other, or I shall believe that you find he lives too long," retorted the wretch. She turned, in silence; whilst he, dismounting from his horse, obliged Mauricette to take his arm, and so brought her back into Nantes. But who were those six individuals whose clandestine entrance into Yves de Rosemadoc's retreat had so agonized poor Mauricette? These six young men were precisely the same six who had met one evening some time before, in a hotel at Porcherons. Their intentions were too amply discussed on that occasion to need any elucidation of what brought them to Nantes. Their visit to Rosemadoc, and the manner in which it had been effected, and to which Mauricette was witness, remained, as far as its aim was concerned, fruitless, since Rosemadoc was at the time absent. This unexpected contrariety caused more vexation than surprise to his unbidden guests, who still also, under the ban of condemnation, had accidentally thus met together, reunited by their common oath of vengeance. They knew themselves to be tracked by an active police; and at such a moment of alarm and apprehension, nothing seemed more probable than that Rosemadoc had betrayed them, after having given them rendezvous on the previous evening. This ever-existing danger, this constantlyrecurring urgency for concealment, seemed to the conspirators to impose upon them a more imperious duty for promptly putting their design into action, since a hand endowed to-day with vigour to strike the blow, might to-morrow be cold in the grasp of death! The Marquis d'Aubarède, who was the leader of the party, then spoke to his comrades, as they assembled in the cottage: "Brothers! this perplexity must not put a stop upon our proceedings. We must not defer till misfortune again separates us, and causes us to hide in caves and dens. At Paris we numbered twenty-four, now we are but six 66 here met; one alone, however, is sufficient to perform the mission we are sworn to, and which is equally incumbent on us by duty and conscience, as well as by our oath! The coming night has been decreed by us to be that in which the inexorable judge should be put to death!" It has! it has!" responded all the voices. But it was necessary that on leaving the cottage they should also leave Rosemadoc some token of their recent presence; it was a difficult matter, as they must make it understood without any actual demonstration, since the slightest indiscretion might involve the ruin of all. The Mar quis d'Aubarède at length found an expedient: it may be remembered, that in order to execute the deed which had fallen to his lot, he had been presented with a poignard, which before be longed to the youngest of the martyrs-the youthful Chevalier de Pontcallee. D'Aubarede sought everywhere for this weapon, and at length discovered it concealed in an old ebony chest, together with the parchment containing their condemnation of the judge. The Marquis took possession of the dagger, as well as the parchment, and left in their place these few words 66 Brother, THIS night with thee, or without thee!" This done, the young men separated, after having named their rendezvous at Nantes. Not long after their departure, Rosemador returned, as his absence was not owing to accident, but had been premeditated: his first act was to open the chest, when finding the poignard removed, and perceiving the words traced in its stead, which he read at a glance, though held in a trembling hand, confirmed him-if he kad allowed himself to doubt-that the deed he so dreaded was resolved upon. "Oh, my God! grant me help," he painfully exclaimed; “in trying to rescue him, I am the means of precipitating his doom! Oh! show me how to save him! Where can I find them? What can I do? It is too late! It is too late!" The hour was indeed at hand! and the Marquis and his comrades were at their post. (To be continued.) THE SEA-BIRD'S FLIGHT. BY DR. SHELTON MACKENZIE. Once, when the Spirit of the Storm His lightnings o'er the sea did fling, I saw a bird of fairy form, And snowy hue, and fragile wing. Strong was the tempest, but her flight Breasted it many a weary mile; For always gleamed upon her sight, In the mid sea, one verdant isle. In fiercer eddies rushed the wind; Weaker the sea-bird's wings did grow, Until at length, with strength declined, She sank into the waves below. And thus, I thought, to all on earth Some far-off home by Faith is given, To which aye tends our soaring forthHow vainly, if not helped by Heaven! SPRING MORNINGS. BY ADA TREVANION. I. The sea dawn-mists in rosy wreaths are over all the fields, And shade by shade to the blue light the sable nightcloud yields. The moon is bright and fresh, mother; the birds go The sun is rising on the world-the glorious, blessed darting by; The snow-white clouds, like silver isles gleam from the deep blue sky; The smiling primrose decks the lea, the vale is green and gay, And blithely in the golden light the small waves leap and play. The bloomy lilac-boughs breathe out their fragrance to the air, And on the young trees in the glade the may is budding fair; The bounding torrent's calling me with merry, gleesome flow, And the tall elm-trees beckon me to where the violets grow. I may not go, I may not go to where the waters run, All foaming, round the old mill-dam, and glittering in the sun : I may not from the mossy banks cull the woodviolets blue; Nor roam, as in blest spring-times gone, the dells and dingles through. Yet bear me from this close, dark room, and let me stand once more Within the rose-wreath'd arbour, at the threshold of the door; Where I may breathe the sweets, mother, the spring sheds round about, And list the tones which cuckoo's flute, and lark's clear pipe trill out. Ah! there's the dear old beechen grove, and there the village-green, And the hawthorn 'neath which, last May, they crown'd me as the Queen! I danced about the may-pole then, I revell'd in the flowers, And only by the joys they brought counted the merry hours. sun! But you'll not blame me, mother dear; you'll clasp me to your breast, And kiss my faded cheek and brow, and strive to give me rest. Nay, nay, you must not fret for me: I have been wild and vain. Phemic will fill my place to you, and never give you pain. I wish it was the winter now: I should not weep to go When the chill frost is on the pane, and the ground is white with snow: But in the spring, when all things wake, and all are glad but I. Pray for me, mother, to endure; for it is hard to die! III. Draw back the curtain, mother dear, and ope the lattice pane! I was so happy, whilst I slept. But soon the vision For I would see the sun once more, and hear the fled; And when I woke, the shroud-like clothes lay on my breast like lead; And then-but I'll not think of that: the sun is in the sky, lark's glad strain. How soft th' awakening breezes play upon my cheek and brow! You must not look so sad, mother: all is so lovely now! And in the spring-time, mother dear, I could not The sweet-brier 'neath the garden wall hath oped its bear to die! II. The morn is coming up, mother; the east is streak'd with gold; The sparrow chirrups from the roof, the lamb bleats from the fold; pink-eyed rose, And 'mongst the tangled meadow-grass the dim long-purple blows; The solemn woods are ringing loud with thrush and blackbird's tale, And soft and clear the morning chimes sound from the dewy vale. Oh, sweet are the new-open'd flowers, and sweet the wild-bird's song, And sweet the music of the chimes so softly borne along. Yet look not on my face, mother, with that sad yearning eye: I am not mournful now, although I know that I must die. "But whoso in Spirit's vast region doth live, Looks not downward on dust, but up to the sky; When the soul learns aright, it no joy can survive, For its loves, like itself, are not destined to die." Poor friend! whose affections have blended with those Portray'd in some image which earth holds not now; It seem'd so hard to leave ye all, when first my How oft doth it visit thy couch of repose, doom I heard : With love in the eye, and with light on the brow? THE CONTRASTED HOMES. CHAP. I. BY MARIA NORRIS. Dr. Linacre's house was a place to dream about; it was an old stone building, monastic in its appearance, all its sharpnesses softened by the lapse of time, all its beauties heightened by its characteristic surroundings in the ancient city of Oxford. It was built on three sides of a quadrangle; the side next the street bounded by a high stone wall, broken only by an arched doorway, whose iron gate was open all day. Through this arch might be seen a glimpse of a beautiful green lawn, cut and kept for hundreds of years past perhaps, and no doubt glowing today as brightly as when King Charles honoured Dr. Linacre's predecessor with a visit during the residence of the court at Oxford. Many a smile greeted Dr. Linacre wherever he appeared; a collegiate life, so far from souring his temper, had given him a sort of superiority over the little accidents of the world, and rendered him remarkably careless about trifles. In his dress he was not particular; he wore a wig which had a tendency to slip an inch or two off his forehead; his shoes were always much too large for him, and he as frequently changed hands with his gloves as not. His coat was always a venerable surtout, and in such garb on a summer evening the good man might be seen calmly strolling in his luxuriant garden, with his hands behind him, and his spectacles probably upside down on his nose. Dr. Linacre's heart at such times was full of sweet and holy gratitude for earth's reflection of heaven's beauties; he stopped now and then to inhale the scent of the large cupped roses for which his grounds were noted, or to listen to the thousand half cheerful, half mournful sounds, which break like solemn music on the soul. The winds whispering mysteriously among the high thick trees, the distant shout of children at play in the meadows below, the hum from the city outside, the stray notes from some bird later than his companions, were among these voices of evening to which the Doctor loved to listen. Kindest and tenderest of men! None but Heaven knew the extent of virtues to which only thyself was quite blind. Many a struggling student had Dr. Linacre's purse assisted, many a reckless youth had his advice restrained; and of all the tutors at that time holding appointments in the University, Dr. Linacre was the most unsuspicious and yet the least frequently deceived; his simple-heartedness, his grave Christian manners, his overflowing tenderness for youth and inexperience, gave him a hold on many a wayward spirit unconscious perhaps of the curb, but nevertheless under its control. It does my heart good to recall the accents of a voice so gentle as his-a voice so often breathing the very spirit of the Sermon on the Mount. How can an inexperienced hand like mine trace even the outline of a character so lovely? Fancy to thyself, Reader, the best, the holiest thou hast known, and let the image supply any deficiencies. Dr. Linacre's wife had been dead many years; a locket with her hair hung round his neck night and day; his had been as black and glossy when that tiny plait was woven, but time and sorrow had left him only a few scattered locks, white as snow. His grief, never clamorous, was now subdued; and he rather hoped for the future meeting, than wept the parting that was past. His wife had not left him quite alone in the world; an only daughter was her dying legacy to him, and the good man had done his utmost to promote his child's welfare. How far his efforts were successful we shall see. CHAP. II. Helen Linacre was a beauty; every one allowed that; even the ladies were not hardy enough to deny her attractions. But of course some thought her too proud, others too cold in her manners; but on all hands her claims to beauty were undisputed. A height rather above the average; features that were as harmonious as poet ever fancied; perfect health, and a colour faint, but clear as the heart of a blush rose; long oval deep blue eyes, with lashes darkly brown, and an abundance of glossy brown hair: these were some of her charms. Add to those features an ever-varying change of blush or smile, or melancholy, and you may fancy Helen Linacre. The home of Dr. Linacre and his daughter was an ark of love. Helen's attentions to her father were constant, her affection unvarying; and while his quiet days flowed on in his professional duties, Helen busied herself at her drawing or her music, in the gardens and shrubbery, or in transcribing for the good Doctor. She had few acquaintances; her mother having died while she was an infant, and her father's habits being very retired, her circle of friends was small. Of women friends she had scarcely one. An aged sister of her father's occasionally passed a week or two at Oxford; but for months together, Helen, her father, and the old servants lived in retirement "The world forgetting, by the world forgot." She was surrounded by living creatures whom she loved, although they were not of her own T kind. Helen had a great fondness for petting animals; two beautiful Italian greyhounds were generally to be seen beside her as she sat at work: her own parlour, too, held some birds which sung nearly all the year round. Both the dogs and the birds knew and loved her; and perhaps even the poor silly dumb gold-fish may have had a sleepy consciousness of their mistress's gentle disposition. In all kinds of needlework Helen was a connoisseuse and an adept; her father's study chair was covered with gorgeous tapestry, his reading table soft with cushions-Helen's work. Almost sorrowless, her calm, quiet life flowed on, leaving no care, no shade to dim her loveliness. Well did she become that quaint old collegiate house; brightly did her beauty shine among the retired shades of the ancient and luxuriant gardens. Like most lady-gardeners, Helen had a horror of the pruning-knife; and the result was, that the trees and shrubs grew at their own sweet will. One day in summer time (it was Helen's birth-day) she and her father sat together in her own parlour; the window was open to the garden, and admitted the tangled roses and jessamine which were breathing out their fragrance in the evening air. "I can scarcely conceive," said the Doctor, musingly, "how people can endure the affliction of having disobedient, unruly children. You, my dear girl, have ever been so gentle and obedient; I doubt if ever you thwarted me at all; I really cannot remember that you ever gave me a moment's sorrow.' The time for evening chapel had now arrived; and as Dr. Linacre was leaving the room, he said, "I am expecting a young man in a day or two, Helen, over whom I am requested to be very vigilant. I suspect he has been as much sinned against as sinning; but I need scarcely say, that although I would not have you otherwise than courteous to him, I wish you to keep aloof from anything like friendship. I have no doubt he may be reclaimed, and my regard for his father will induce me to use every effort to save him; but I shall have him here as little as possible, at least until I am satisfied of his improvement." All the rest of the evening Helen pondered over her father's words; at first she regretted that their quiet home was to be intruded upon by visits from a stranger; then the remembrance of his unexplained errors came into her mind, and a burning impulse to reclaim him, so natural to a woman, took possession of her. I think it is almost a woman's first idea when she hears of vice or folly-the reclamation of the offender. CHAP. III. The two or three succeeding days passed away in no little anxiety on Helen's part, and indeed on her father's too. He said no more about the "coming man ;" and Helen, whose thoughts had been almost unceasingly occupied by the expected collegian, from a very natural feeling of shyness, shunned making any reference to him. The Doctor was in his study one morning, when his pupil was announced. There was a bold look of defiance in his dark eyes, which at once avowed a quarrel with the world; his lip had a curl which was scarcely natural at his age of twenty years; and a practised observer might have detected revealings of an obstinate temper in the extreme firmness of his step. He bowed coldly to his new tutor, and stood erect his full height of six feet and more. "Be seated," said the good inan, with tears in his eyes, for the young man's father had been his own old college friend; and as he looked on this face so like that on which his eyes loved to dwell in youth, he could but ill control his emotion. "Is Lord Evelyn-is my old friend -with you, Mr. Brandon?" asked the tutor. Mr. Brandon eyed the inquirer's dress with a queer glance as he replied, rather sarcastically, Oh dear, no, Dr. Linacre; I run alone, I am out of leading-strings." Dr. Linacre looked on his young guest with a glance of surprise, as if he hardly comprehended him, and then inquired after the health of Lord Evelyn. 66 He is quite as well as his ill-temper will let him be," was the reply; "and I regret to say, for my own sake, that that is not very well." The Doctor shook his head. He was gentle to a fault, and he recoiled from any ruder expression of his displeasure. Mr. Brandon smiled, and an appointment having been made for the afternoon, when the Doctor was to show the young man his rooms, he took his leave. I know not what thoughts passed through his mind as he trod the pave ment of the wonderful old city, which he had never seen until then; but I fear its repose and quiet had little influence on his chafed and angry spirit. The tutor thought that kindness and consideration would be the best things to oppose to such a temper, and with this idea he invited Mr. Brandon to spend an evening at his house. Lord The young man started when he was introduced to Helen; he had never thought of the possibility of Dr. Linacre's having a daughter, and he was accordingly surprised. His faults were not altogether to be attributed to himself his home had never been a happy one. Evelyn had, early in life, married a widow many years his senior, and her three daughters by her first marriage had made the house rather uncomfortable. Lord Evelyn himself had been an extravagant man; his fortune was much im paired, and his rich wife ruled him on this account with no very gentle hand. Mr. Bran |