This hath its own fresh charm:
We catch the flush of Summer fair,
Though veil'd with Spring's soft golden Lair
While sleeping on her arm.

See one small garden all in blow:
Anemone and crocus glow,
The sun's illumin'd bow,
That these shall deep carnations bloom,
Blush-rose and lily gush perfume,
So base, so scentless now!

The wild bird builds its summer house,
The trees with hope seem tremulous,
Thus in the light wind sway'd;
A fragrant promise spreading round,
That in their small green buds are bound
Rich depths of emerald shade.

The azure sea all sparkling springs
To meet the morning's airy wings,
The busy boats go out;
And looking down the sunny street,
Our eyes such cheery faces meet,
Such pleasant groups about!

Hark to those children's passing talk!
They have not, on their morning walk,
Left one wild flower unstirr'd;
Our neighbours are astir, then one
Puts her geraniums in the sun,
The next hangs out her bird.

The dear old couple o'er the way
Smile at the children, blithe as they,
And live their childhood through.
The Spring that o'er each white head breathes,
Drops ever on mem'ry's primrose wreaths
A sprinkle of its dew.

The sick girl in her window lies,
While her unearthly, brilliant eyes
Seem into Heaven to strain.
Her Spring will open far away,
Long e're of ours the earliest ray
Can bless the world again.

All duly robed for its first day,
The pretty mother, proud and gay,
Brings out the babe next door.
Ah! tiny blossom, thou couldst bring
Into her very heart a Spring
It never felt before.

But sure, dear husband, 'twere a sin
To spend the golden hours within;
Up to the warm hill-side,
And let those little ones of ours
See Nature write her name in flower
Before the first have died.

If Spring and childhood, glad and free,
But move us with their blended glee
To play the child again,
The day shall close on soften'd hearts,
That own with praise, as it departs,
It hath not shone in vain.

THE DEAD SECRET.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD. UNCLE JOSEPH

THE day and the night had passed, and the
new morning had come, before the husband
and wife could trust themselves to speak
calmly of the Secret, and to face resignedly
the duties and the sacrifices which the
discovery of it imposed on them.

Leonard's first question referred to those
lines in the letter, which Rosamond had
informed him were in a handwriting that she
knew. Finding that he was at a loss to
understand what means she could have of
forming an opinion on this point, she
explained that, after Captain Treverton's death,
many letters had naturally fallen into her
possession which had been written by Mrs.
Treverton to her husband. They treated of
ordinary domestic subjects, and she had read
them often enough to become thoroughly
acquainted with the peculiarities of Mrs.
Treverton's handwriting. It was remarkably
large, firm, and masculine in character; and
the address, the line under it, and the uppermost
of the two signatures in the letter
which had been found in the Myrtle Room,
exactly resembled it in every particular.

The next question related to the body of
the letter. The writing of this, of the
second signature ("Sarah Leeson"), and of
the additional lines on the third page, also
signed by Sarah Leeson, proclaimed itself in
each case to be the production of the same
person. While stating that fact to her
husband, Rosamond did not forget to explain to
him that, while reading the letter on the
previous day, her strength and courage had
failed her before she got to the end of it.
She added that the postscript which she had
thus omitted to read, was of importance,
because it mentioned the circumstances under
which the secret had been hidden; and
begged that he would listen while she made
him acquainted with its contents without any
further delay.

Sitting as close to his side, now, as if they
were enjoying their first honeymoon-days over
again, she read these last lines—the lines
which her mother had written sixteen years
before, on the morning when she fled from
Porthgenna Tower.

"If this paper should ever be found (which
I pray with my whole heart it never may
be), I wish to state that I have come to
the resolution of hiding it, because I dare
not show the writing that it contains to
my master, to whom it is addressed. In
doing what I now propose to do, though I
am acting against my mistress's last wishes,
I am not breaking the solemn engagement
which she obliged me to make before her
on her death-bed. That engagement
forbids me to destroy this letter, or to take
it away with me if I leave the house. I
shall do neither,—my purpose is to conceal
it in the place, of all others, where I think
there is least chance of its ever being found
again. Any hardship or misfortune which
may follow as a consequence of this deceitful
proceeding on my part, will fall on
myself. Others, I believe, on my conscience,
will be the happier for the hiding of the
dreadful secret which this letter contains."

"There can be no doubt, now," said