weeping as he opens the door: " Oh, my dear
young mistress! I am commanded to shut
this gate against you." The figure of Sir
James Gloys looms darkly in the hall.
"Begone, mistress! "he exclaims. "I will go
to my grandmother," sobs out the poor girl.
"Your grandmother banishes you for ever
from her presence," retorts the churlish
priest.

It is night. The pride and the purity of
the unhappy Margery forbid her to seek the
protection of her Richard. She has been
watched. Exhausted and heart-broken, she
gladly accepts the shelter which Roger Best
offers her. That shelter becomes her prison.

Here closes the record. But what a
succession of Shadows is called up by the endorsement
of the letter which tells of these sorrows:
"They were after married together." The
contract could not be dissolved.

At one time we see the shadows of Richard
and Margery Calle sitting cheerily together
in their peaceful home at Framlingham. The
intrigues that are carrying on in the Duke
of Norfolk's castle, under whose walls they
abide, touch them not. They are not called
upon to declare either for York or
Lancaster.

At another time we fancy John of Gelston,
Margery's younger brother, a wandering
fugitive after the battle of Barnet, throwing
himself upon the despised Factor for refuge
and succour. The fortunes of the Pastons
are now at the lowest ebb. Norfolk holds
Caister. Edward the Fourth has pardoned
their revolt—but he will not trust them, or
employ them. At length Norfolk dies.
Caister is restored to the Pastons—but they
are penniless.

We see the shadow of a great feast within
those half-ruinous walls. The Factor has
procured the means from his friends the Lombards.
He now sits upon the dais. Sir John Paston
calls him brother. Dame Paston greets him
as son. John of Gelston says, "I would that
my sister should not sell mustard and candles
at Framlingham—and assuredly she shall not.
Richard Calle has managed his substance
better than we; he can win broad lands enow.
Kiss me, sister."

There is one shadow of Margery which
rests upon our mind. She sits with her
mother in the Oaken parlour at Norwich,
reading from a volume, now opened without
fear, "Blessed are the peace-makers."

WINTER VIOLETS.

You ask me why my eyes are filled with tears,
     Whene'er I meet the violets of the spring?
You cannot tell what thoughts of bygone years
    Those simple flowers have never failed to bring.

I had a brother once; his grave is green,
    And long ago was carved the headstone's date;
But fresh his memory still,—I have not seen
    One like him, since he left me desolate.

For we were twins, and bound by ties so strong,
     It seemed that neither could exist apart;
Yet he was taken,—Ah! what memories throng
    E'en to this day, on my bereaved heart.

He faded from us in the winter time,
    When all the sun's warmth from his rays departs;
Sometimes we fancy a more genial clime
    Might have restored him to our anxious hearts.

My mother prayed him tell her was there aught
     That gold could purchase, or that love might seek,
Which he desired; so tenderly she sought
    To bring back smiles upon the hollow cheek.

"Are there no violets yet?" he answered low.
    We sent out messengers the country round:—
In vain, in vain, the hills were deep with snow,
    And cruel frost lay on the level ground.

"Will not the violets come before the spring?"
     How plaintive came the question—day by day:
None could be found; it only served to wring
    Our loving hearts to answer always "Nay."

At last one day he 'woke revived from sleep,
     And smiling thanked us for them; but we said
It was a dream, for still the snow lay deep,
    Not e'en a snowdrop dared to lift its head.

Yet he averred their perfume filled the air!—
    "How could he doubt it? sure the flowers were nigh!"
Alas! we knew no violets could be there,—
    Yet seemed they present to his fervid eye.

So spake he, till he slept;—he 'woke no more:
     Sweet brother, was it worthy of regrets,
That the next morn, from distant parts they bore
    To our sad home, the longed-for violets?

Was he by fancy happily deceived?
    Or were his dying senses rarefied,
And actual knowledge blissfully achieved,
    Tasting the fragrance as he softly died?

I wept while bending o'er his coffined rest,
     Hushing my anguish for a last caress;
I strew'd the violets on his pallid breast—
    Perhaps still conscious of their loveliness.

SCIENCE AT SEA.

IT is impossible for any sea to affect
me. The boat may be "lively," the waves
"chopping," and the most adipose of mutton-
chops may be presented to me when we are in
mid Channel. I and the steward have parted
company for ever. The deck may be oblique,
perpendicular, and wet; water may pour down
the cabin-stairs, and the vessel may shudder
in the troughs of the sea, yet shall I serenely
smoke my Havannah, peacefully watch the
swoop of the sea-gull, and observe the
land growing from the distance. Therefore
shall I invest myself in the acknowledged
nautical fashion. I am no longer one of those
ignoble travellers whom seamen sagaciously
warn to windward. I shall certainly not dine
before land is out of sight. What so delicious