music from the sharp strings. Poor souls!
they played through it bravely, as they did
every morning frostier than its predecessor;
for this was towards the close of the drinking
season. We met their familiar faces again
at noontide; at dewy eve also they
reappeared, and usually finished their day's
labour at the Theatre. They must have
looked—those children of the Muse—upon
their instruments as upon a spade, or a
pitchfork, or other agricultural instrument which
brings its matter in tenpence for his day's
drudgery. This was the view taken by the
Reverend Mr. Hoblush, as he sat by the
waters on a green bench, and thought
pensively of his fortunes.

The Reverend Mr. Jones, Incumbent of the
English Church of Sulphur-le-Bains, was
showing himself impracticable—did not bend
so pliantly to the Committee as could be
wished. A section was for retaining his
services. The thing did not move smoothly.
O world, world: hollow, heartless world! I
thought then of that little bit of nature now
before my eyes; that cementing of two young
hearts that was going forward in a sort of
sweet mystery; that strange, enthralling,
fond, foolish process which has been going on
since the world began: and yet on which I
durst not bring myself to look with scorn.
Had not my own poor heart passed through
the flaming furnace?

There was a person sitting near me, reading
a little French narrative, whose features a
wide-spreading casque o'ershadowed. Not
unfamiliar to me the figure. It was Bo-opis:
Emilia Matilda, the Ox-eyed. And scarcely
reading too; for, over the edge of the little
tome, those eyes had been wandering stealthily,
and met those of Alfred Hoblush. Both
persons were confused at this discovery; not
unnaturally. The onus clearly lay on me.
I drew near.

"The air breathes soft and balmy," I said,
"no wonder Miss Mildboy is abroad on such
an eve!"

She answered, "I love the solitude of this
crowd. Oftentimes I take my book and retire
thus apart from the busy world, temporarily.
You, Mr. Hoblush, love solitude, I am sure.
You love communing with yourself."

"What leads you to that conclusion?" I
asked, gently. "Is hermit written on this
pale countenance?"

"No." she said, those preternatural eyes
shooting on me strange lustrous darts; "but
there seems to me to breathe from you
an indescribable yearning for solitude, a
thirst to be alone. During the short period
that you have been here, I have noted that
you love to wander apart: that you hearken
listlessly to the inspiring strains of the
orchestra: that your eyes turn with indifference
from face to face: that you proffer your
tumbler to be filled in a careless fashion and
quaff it without repugnance. Unobserved I
have regarded you. Forgive me" (here I
observed something like a blush stealing over
the cheek of the gentle Bo-opis) "I have
spoken too much—I am very giddy, and
sometimes say more than I mean."

I started. What could this signify! What
was this strange interest towards one so little
known to her compassion? Ah, yes. I was
his friend too: so she felt sympathy.

"Forgive me," she continued; "think me
not too forward if I ask you one question."

"A hundred," I said, with enthusiasm.

"Am I not right," she continued, "in
supposing that you have passed through some
bitter trial—some terrible, absorbing, mind-
conflict, which has consumed and calcined all
the soft and tender in man, and made you
stern and cold to our sex for ever? Am I
right?"

I started again. "How should you know
this?" I asked. "Has any one told you?"

"No," she said. I can read the human
heart well. There are deep cold lines written
in your face, which tell me your whole
story."

Cold lines! how readily she had gone to
the truth: how like woman's instinct!
Contemplating my own features in the mirror not
two mornings before, it had occurred to me,
how calm, how cold, how death-like they were.
So must have looked Werter before his
catastrophe. "I will tell you," I said, "the whole
history one day. You will sympathise with
me. Into your friendly heart I will pour all
my sorrow."

"Hush! " said Bo-opis, "we are observed."
She rose.

The unhappy musicians were, by this time,
dropping into their accustomed seats. The
perambulating waggon which took about
their instruments, was standing at the gate,
giving up its load. The drinkers were
beginning to walk to and fro. Observed,
therefore, we were; but why look about so
mysteriously. Stay: whose figure was that
seen afar off in the grove, approaching—
young Norval's was it—young Twist's I
mean? Could it be that she dreaded his
coming? Crash of drum, cymbals, and
orchestra from their painted gallery! the
plethoric conductor flourished his fiddle-stick,
as if he were fresh at the work,
and it had for him all the charm of newness.
That hurly-burly swallowed up both
reflections.

With Twist, the elder, I grew to be on
familiar terms, and often sat beside him at
the festive board, which was indeed the table-
d'hôte. He was for ever dwelling on his
splendid schemes for his son's advancement:
how he was to be joined in wedlock to
one of a noble family. "Sir, when we go
back to England, I shall look out for some
pauper countess for him." Those grievous
complaints too, of which I learnt many
minute particulars, were being sensibly
ameliorated.

But how was it with myself? That clerical