She wiped her tears, and she smiled on him.
  "Think no more, my father, of me;
Follow Sir Alain, as still my prayers
  Will follow him and thee."

The host went forth to the battle-field,
  The maid remain'd in the still old house;
She went not forth to the forest by day,
  Nor hid among the boughs.

She shed no tear, she made no moan,
  She shunned the sun and the face of day;
But when the moonbeams shone cold and white,
And the screech-owl shriek'd through the solemn nlght,
  Then she was up and away—

Away to the banks of the blue Elorn,
  Away to the sleeping forest-glades,
Up and down like a restless ghost
  Among the ghostly shades.

"For oh, I love him!" was all her cry,
  "Oh, I love him!"—below her breath.
"He never could have been mine in life,
  But his life shall be mine in death.

"Here on this spot I saw him last,
  Here in the sunlight I saw him lie;
And on this spot I'll lay me down,
  And in the moonlight die."

White 'neath the moon is the sweet dead face,
  Wet and cold lie the dews on her breast,
Wild on the wind the wolf's howl comes,
  But nought disturbs her rest.

And in the morning a milk-white Dove
  Rises up from the clay-cold form,
And wings its flight through the forest boughs,
  Through the sunshine bright and warm.

Straight to the battle-field it hies,
  Hovering high o'er the bloody strife,
Where Breton hands and hearts strike true
  For liberty and life.

Sir Alain heads an onward charge,
  On like a thunder-bolt he rushes;
A French lance strikes his stalwart breast,
  And out the hot blood gushes:

To and fro he sways—then prone
  The grand form like a tower tumbles;
Still bome on by the force of the charge,
  O'er their leader each soldier stumbles.

They are past and gone: alone he lies,
  From his breast the life-blood welling;
Surely the sound of an angel's wings
  There comes on the thick air swelling?

No, it is but a milk-white Dove;
  She settles down on the gaping wound,
Pressing, pressing, her snowy breast
  On the bloody gash profound,

Pressing, pressing, her spotless breast
  Till the welling blood has ceased to flow
(The feathers take not the crimson dyes).
Sir Alain opens his death-dimmed eyes,
  And murmurs faint and low.

Slowly his senses come again,
  He sees the white Dove on his breast;
He strokes it feebly, "Bird of peace,
  Strange is thy place of rest!"

Anon across the field there come
  The sturdy Miller and other three,
"The blessed Virgin and Saint Méen!
  Behold the Saint-Esprit!"

The white Dove slowly lifts herself;
  They bind the wound and gently bear
The knight to shelter, and still the Dove
  Hovers aloft in air.

They lay him down 'neath a gnarléd oak,
  Like that which grew at La Forêt;
The white Dove, like the Miller's maid,
  Sits up there all the day;

The livelong day and the livelong night,
  The while the Miller and his men
With careful tendance bring their lord
  Back to the world again.

The fight is over, the battle won,
  Armorica once more is free,
Sir Alain saved, and all again
  Is as 'twas wont to be.

But never more the milk-white Dove
  Was seen of any mortal eye,
Since from the oak-bough she had sprung
  Up towards the summer sky.

HOUSE-HUNTING.

NEWLY called to the Bar, about to attend the
Home Circuit, and on the point of marrying,
I wanted a neat cottage (two sitting-rooms and,
say, five bedrooms) about an hour's journey
from London.

A love of good scenery made me select
Berkshire or Surrey. I wanted (being an
inexperienced dreamer) a little Paradise,
semi-detached, with small Eden of flowers and
vegetables, for forty pounds a year, exclusive of
taxes—or inclusive, if I were lucky enough.
Afraid of the dearness of things in the charming
and well-known villages on the Thames, I
went to the chief London house-agents, Messrs.
Tyler, Meddleham, and Trap, and obtained their
lists of eligible houses. What a bright dream-land
lay before me! I stood like Columbus on
the edge of a boundless and golden continent—
deer-parks, pineries, lakes, conservatories,
butler's pantries, hard and soft water, loose
boxes, coach-houses, grouse shooting over forty
thousand acres, were all before me where to
choose. I had only to dip my hand in the
lucky bag and draw a prize.

That sour fellow Fungoid, at the Sarcophagus,
had told me it was a most diflicult thing to get a
cheap cottage that was worth occupying, if the
neighbourhood were a popular one. Stuff and
spite of Fungoid's—all said to vex me and
Lizzie. What did he know about it, with his
legs always on a sofa at the Sarcophagus, dozing
over a blue-book on the game laws? Large
mansions might be hard to get; but the
"cottage orny " (as the house-agent called it when
expatiating to me) was quite another thing.
Here they were on the lists by dozens. "Very
elegant semi-detached villa residence, at Little
Bookham—good fishing;" "Cottage, with six
bedrooms—gas—good garden;" "Delightful
residence, at Cheatham—five minutes from
railway station." Plentiful, indeed! Is sand
plentiful on the sea-shore? Are buds plentiful
about the first of May?