ness of his own soul, and invoked the vengeance of Heaven, desiring that some angel, not of mercy, but of destruction, might be sent down to trouble the waters; and longing for anything that might call forth the energies of his mind, and direct his attention from the one absorbing subject which filled his thoughts.

But Heaven, in mercy, heard him not. Still, the sun shone brightly, the winds were propitious, and the graceful vessel moved on and on, over the vast Atlantic, as safely as on the bosom of a calm, blue lake.

Their voyage was short. In less than three weeks they were in sight of land; and amid the glee and bustle among his fellow passengers, the Unbeliever alone stood unmoved. It was a calm, fine night; and the moon ever and anon hid her pale face behind a hazy cloud, and then again threw a halo of silver light upon the sea. Wallace thought of his country,-of his home,-of Agnes. Once more better feelings were awakened within him, but he yielded not to their influence. Shall I write to her? he asked himself, as he sat alone in his hotel or coffee-house in New York, after he had landed. "Shall

remind her of our early intimacy, and attempt to regain her affection?-But he did not write to Agnes. He rather sought to drown reflection in a busy whirl of pleasure; and after spending a few weeks in New York, he passed the two following months in travelling,-hurrying from one place to another, and accustoming himself daily to fresh scenes and fresh faces. He afterwards returned to the continent of Europe, and we will take leave of him again at Paris, where he spent the following winter.

CHAPTER XIV.

"Life is real, life is earnest,
And the grave is not our goal:
'Dust thou art-to dust returnest'
Is not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end and way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us further than to day.

A FEW months after the duel, and the disappearance of the Unbeliever, Richard Fleetwood with his family, decided upon spending the winter in London. Arrangements were forthwith entered upon. A house was taken at Chelsea, and the Old Hall was committed to the care of Timothy, the game-keeper; and amid the desolation of Autumn, soon looked more like an enchanted castle of the olden time than an English villa of the nineteenth century.

Agnes had half consented to accompany her brother to the metropolis, but Mrs. Smith, whose kind feelings never evaporated in mere expressions of sympathy and affection, entreated her to remain with her, and make the Clifton Rectory her home until something further should transpire respecting the fate of Arnold. Agnes gratefully assented to her proposal, but Mr. and Mrs. Fleetwood were at first inclined to demur a little. Their sister's health was in a very precarious state; and change of air and scene had been recommended by our Clifton

Surgeon, as the best restorative that he could suggest.

Agnes consulted with Mr. Smith; and although, when the Rector looked upon her pale face and dull heavy eyes, and heard the languid tones of her voice, he could hardly persuade himself but that the sickness of the soul was quickly bearing the feeble body to the grave, he was very reluctant to yield to the surgeon's wishes. He knew that although Agnes was ill, the root of her disease lay far beneath the reach of medical attention and advice; and that travelling, with all its attendant dissipation, together with the busy gaiety of Mr. and Mrs. Fleetwood's circle, would only tend to increase her restlessness and depression of spirit.

"My dear Agnes," he would sometimes say, "I know that you are not a child, or an imbecile, to be hurried into forgetfulness by rapid stages. I know that as once you had an unruffled depth of happiness within your own heart, on which the fair field of nature around you was only imaged faintly, and as upon the surface; so now, independant of all around you, a tide of misery has risen up in your soul, the depth of which is known hardly to yourself, and which the feverish excitement of society will only deaden and stagnate. You are no longer capable of finding happiness in fluttering about in the ́sunshine, like a giddy insect. You have known something of the reality of life, and you must learn to find happiness in a greater reality."

Agnes understood him; and she felt that he could understand her. It is a satisfaction, although a gloomy one, to find that we are not singular in our feelings,

that there are those amongst us, who-though they may not tell us how, or when-have struggled through waves of sorrow just as dark and cold as those that threaten to overwhelm us. Agnes's heart soon turned towards the Rectory as to a home of sympathy and affection,-an ark of rest amid a whole deluge of affliction.

The Fleetwood family left Clifton, early in October; and on the same day Mrs. Arnold took leave of her own room, at the Hall, and entered the Rectory. After bidding her brother and sister an affectionate farewell, she walked down alone to the river's side,—the same blue river by whose bank she and Wallace had so often wandered together in the Spring, in their own happy dream of love. Now, the surrounding woods were mellow in the shades of Autumn; but the careless stream danced merrily along as it did then, and as it had done for centuries, and poured its murmuring undersong into the silence of evening;-for it was evening, and a calm, placid, heavenly evening it was,-the setting sun, as it sank beneath a mass of purple clouds, seemed as if looking back with regret upon the beautiful woods and hills, and pouring over them a halo of parting benediction.

Agnes lingered until slowly but surely the dim twilight came stealing over the earth,-a few twinkling stars looked forth from the horizon,-the surrounding cornfields were enveloped in a dull white mist, while the moon grew brighter as night blackened in upon her. Presently a labourer passed, touching his hat as he brushed by Agnes. She enquired of him if it were late.

"None so late, ma'am," was the answer, "Nights

will be getting long now, for Autumn is coming thick upon us."

"Autumn is coming upon us," repeated Agnes, as she slowly followed the man towards the village, "Night approaches and the heavy dews of evening have entered into my soul." She proceeded to the Rectory, where Mrs. Smith and the children were impatiently waiting for her; and if a warm welcome, and the sight of smiling faces around her could have dissipated the gloom that rested upon her mind, Agnes might have been happy, but her own heart knew and felt its bitterness.

The first evening passed; and the next morning the glad sunshine, again

"Came in spite of sorrow,"

"And at the window bade good-morrow."

It was harvest time, and every one in Clifton, with only a few exceptions, were in the fields. The little Smiths played among the stubble in the gladness of their young hearts, and in the course of the morning Agnes and Mr. Smith joined them, and talked over the events of the summer.

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My dear Mr. Smith," said Agnes, taking his arm, and evidently making a strong effort to command her voice, "I scarcely dare tell my feelings even to you, this morning, I am so unhappy-so wretchedly unhappy, that the merriment of the children, the gay laugh from the harvest field, and even the beautiful light of day, the singing of the birds and this clear warm sunshine oppress me. I feel as if this world of love and beauty were not my own element, and I long to bury my