We have been both foolish, perhaps, and, if so
I the most to blame." And so finished, with an
expression of sisterly affection and good-will.

Leonard had his part to do. He was by
nature of a friendly although firm disposition.
His letter was more decided than that of
Constance, openly hoping that the match which
would have connected him and Brooke so
closely would now be broken off; but he
wrote it with sorrow and not harshness, and
there was a lingering kindness towards his
unhappy friend from the beginning to the
close; the knowledge that his sister's
happiness depended on what should come of this,
alone made him stern.

He might have spared himself this delicacy,
and Persey the humiliation which attended it,
had he waited another day. The letters from
the two houses crossed; one from Hilton
Hall, enclosing another from Sir William,
arrived the very next afternoon; Brooke's
set forth that his marriage with Miss Gray
was absolutely interdicted by his patron, and
the baronet's contained a simple forbidding
of the banns; passionate declarations of love,
the coolest calculations of prudence, extenuations
of himself, entreaties for pardon,
complaints of too much having been expected of
him, made up the strange sum of the young
man's farewell.

"Pitiful!" Leonard exclaimed, when he had
read it. "It is better so," sighed poor Constance,
as she wept for the lover that was
worse than dead. And it was better so.
Her heart in time recovered from the first
storming of its citadel. Perhaps, it was only
the outer-works that were ever injured; for,
in later years, she was beloved, if not so rapturously,
yet far less selfishly, by another;
whom she married.

Brooke himself became the possessor of
almost all the Persey lands for Sir William
died immediately after his marriage; to him
and his heirs for ever he left the old Hall,
and the park-land, and the corn-land, and
the pastures towards the sea; but, alas! he
never had a child to inherit them. He dwelt
with his bitter, barren wife awhile, in
grandeur and great wretchedness, and
afterwards, when driven from his home by her
sharp words, lived as hard as the Perseys
of the olden time. Like more than one of
them, too, he met his death in hunting—
dragged at his horse's stirrup over his own
fields, with his fine features not to be
known by the most loving eyes, had there
been such to look on him.

                     THE LOVE TEST.
                                 I.

      WITH a graceful step, and stately,
        Proud of heart and proud of mien,
      And her deep eyes shining greyly,
        Cometh Lady Madeline,
                        Shuddering as with cold;
      With cheek red-flush'd like daisy tip,
      And full, ripe, pouting, ruby lip,
                        And hair of tawny gold.

      Robes of changeful, silken lustre,
        Drape her supple rounded limbs;
      Where the loveliest maidens muster,
        She their beauty pales and dims
                       By her surpassing grace.
      Gleam rich strung pearls amidst her hair,—-
      You shall not see a form more fair,
                       Or a more radiant face.

      Yet in her bosom lurks some anger,
        Mask'd and gloss'd with sunny smiles;
      From her grey-green eyes a danger
        Looketh out, despite her wiles,
                       Subtle and cruelly.
      Though of beauty fresh and youthful,
      Seeming gay and seeming truthful,
                       Full of guile is she.

      Her quick eyes glancing hither, thither,
        With a spark of baleful fire,
      And a wish that fain would wither,
        What she hates with burning ire,
                        Goes she up the Hall.
      Serpent-like, with smooth, soft gliding,
      In and out the gay crowd sliding,
                         With slow, unheard footfall.

      Comes she to a window shrouded
         By a crimson curtain's sweep—-
      All her face grows dark and clouded
         As her very heart could weep
                        Red tears of bitter blood.
      And listening, she draws her breath,
      In short quick gasps, as if her death
                        Drew near her where she stood.

      By the crimson shadow hidden,
        Sitteth gentle Lady Claire;
      Blushes tint her cheek unbidden,
        She is young and very fair,
                        With eyes of loving light;
      And tresses dusk as midnight water,
      Rippled into lines of lustre
                         By the clear starlight.

     Her smile a tender April shining,
        After rain upon May-bloom;
     The wreath of lilies, loosely twining
        Amidst the waved and shimmering gloom
                        That lies above her brow,
      Is not more pure and sweet than she.—-
      So whispers one who on his knee
                         Voweth his simple vow.

      Lips apart, and forward bending
        As she fain would drain their life;
      Every love-tone poison blending
        With her vain and secret strife,
                         Standeth Lady Madeline:
      Fingers clench'd and bosom heaving,
      All her dearest hope bereaving
                         Of their rich golden sheen.

      Every soft, kind word she heareth
        Falls upon her thirsty heart,
      Like a flake of fire that seareth
        All its nobler, better part;
                        Her soul is full of hate.
      She goes away —- she leaves them there,
      Smiling, and not a tint less fair,
                        With eyes that glare like Fate.