CHAPTER XVII.

"And such is human life;-so gliding on,
It glimmers like a meteor and is gone!

Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange,
As full methinks of wild and wondrous change,

As any song of old, in hall or bower,

To minstrell harps at midnight's watching hour!"

AND now, we will return to Clifton; for, "lo the winter is past, the rain is over and gone, the flowers appear on the earth, and the time of the singing of birds is come." Spring-beautiful, genial spring-has revisited us, in her own virgin green,—the trees are budding into new life, and showers of white blossoms tremble in the breeze. Earth has burst from her chrysalis state, thrown off her wintry habiliments as the cerements of death, and appears again in her resurrection robes; and man hears the voice of God, proclaiming as of old, in the harmony of nature, "I will no more curse the ground for his sake, while the earth remaineth; seed time and harvest, summer and winter, day and night shall not cease."

Do you wish to know how our friends at the Rectory had passed this winter?—It was a time of unusual scarcity and deprivation among the villagers of Clifton; for the population is composed mainly of poor laborers, dependent for their daily bread upon their six days toil in the field; and early in the month of December, a few heavy falls of snow, followed by several weeks of hard

frost, had fairly sealed up the ground, and defied the efforts of the agriculturist. There lay the cold earth, veiled like a vestal virgin, in her chaste white robes, and gave no signs of life; and curious enough it was, to see the cottages or farm houses laid in with a flaky thatch much thicker than their own, and the hills glittering in the distance like avalanches, while the busy, murmuring river was frozen into silence.

During this interval of the suspension of agricultural labour, Agnes and her friends were assiduously employed in attempts for the relief of the poor-the barrenness of nature gave daily impulse to their exertions; even Mrs. Smith, notwithstanding her domestic habits and love of home duties, contrived to spend several hours of each day in attending to the wants of the parishioners; the children were taught the luxury of self sacrifice, for the sake of others; and Agnes, like a sister of mercy, devoted her time, her fortune, her influence, to works of benevolence; suggested new schemes of charity and carried them into effect herself; often rising ere the dull dawn of a winter's morning blinked through its heavy mists and fogs, to visit the neighbouring hamlets, and minister with her own hands to the relief of the sick or the destitute. After such a morning, would the day come, with its train of busy cares and pleasures; and then, evening, 'gentle evening, season of peace,' returning, and continuing long; and oh, we feel half inclined to stay and loiter over the fire-side, where, while the hollow wind whistles in the chimney, the long crimson window curtains are drawn close, and the evening

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lamp shines upon happy faces, and the playful prattle of infancy is intermixed with the thoughtful tone of manhood, or the voice of woman's sympathy and kindness, but we must hasten on, for all this is in nowise connected with our story about an Unbeliever.

Mr. Smith had apprised Agnes of the expected return of her husband, on his receiving the first intimation of it; and it was afterwards arranged by himself and Nehemiah that he should proceed at once to the Clifton Rectory. His wife, who had now received several letters from him, and was fully acquainted with the state of his health and feelings, had determined to meet him in the South, but as she was still somewhat indisposed, and utterly unfit for the excitement of travelling, she was wisely kept in suspense as to the precise time of his arrival in England. A brief messsage, conveyed by the Clifton carrier, at length announced that Arnold and Nehemiah were already in the neighbouring town, and might be expected at the Rectory in the course of the afternoon; and Mr. Smith, with all possible caution, communicated the intelligence to Agnes.

But, although thus prepared for it, she could scarcely support the mingled sensations of hope and fear to which

it

gave rise. She threw herself upon the sofa,-talked calmly to her friends of his returning, only to wither in her arms, and endeavoured to appear composed; but every noise startled her, and her ears eagerly caught the first sound of carriage wheels upon the smooth sand of the lane adjoining the house. Mrs. Smith would have detained her, but she ran into the garden and look

ed anxiously towards the B road. A heavy travelling carriage was moving slowly-very slowly towards the Rectory, it came close up to the place where she was standing. Agnes leant against the garden gate and looked up-she recognised at once the quaintly attired Nehemiah, but the pale, emaciated stranger, with his heavy dark eyes-who was he? She shrank back as the carriage turned through the gate, and the stranger feebly raised his head and his dark eyes met hers. Agnes knew him, but she became faint and cold, her head swam, and she sank senseless to the ground.

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It was evening-a gentle summer's evening-calm and sunshiny as when Wallace and Agnes stood together in the church-yard in the spring of the preceding year, when death seemed under their feet, a heaven of serene love above their heads, and earth stretched out before them, like a garden of paradise. Only a few brief months had passed, and here they met again-the living and the dying-but heaven was in their hearts, and immortality before them.

We cannot tell you how they met; for assuredly, it were worse than sacrilege to rend asunder the veil, and penetrate into the very holy of holies of the human heart, that we may pry with curious gaze into its secrets. Theirs was a joy with which we cannot intermeddle, unless like them we have been alienated from a friend, dear as our own soul, and have again embraced in the love of reconciliation. We will leave Agnes and Wallace in the twilight of the evening, and close the door

upon them; for the hour of separation approaches, and our story is well-nigh ended.

That same night-a few hours after Mr. and Mrs. Smith had retired to bed-Fanny, who was exceedingly restless, awoke her husband and desired that he would go down stairs and enquire after Mr. Arnold, for she felt anxious both about him and Agnes. Smith roused himself, accordingly, and attempted to strike a light with some lucifer matches which lay on the dressing-table, but was unsuccessful. He then drew aside the window curtains -it was the still hour of midnight, and the faint light of the moon looked down through the white mist—not an object was visible from the window but the church spire peering as from the clouds, and the dark yew stretching out its arms like a gigantic spectre among the tombs. Smith went softly down stairs into the breakfast room, where he had left the invalid. Wallace was reclining upon the sofa, he was apparently asleep, and breathing with great difficulty. Agnes was seated upon a footstool, her arms thrown round him, and her head leaning against his shoulder. Nehemiah stood by them, like a guardian angel; observing Smith, he beckoned to him to stay, and the Rector turned towards Agnes and gently recommended her to try to obtain some rest. Agnes neither spoke nor moved; she knew that she was in the chamber of death; and she felt like one, standing on the very brink of the troubled Jordan, and as if the waters were low, and the distance between earth and heaven were but a step.