Oh, like the circles on a stream,
That pass from touches of the flowers
Upon the bank, may smiles play on
About her heart, through all her hours,
And o'er her face, as now within
Her summer-arbour lawn'd with flowers!

Her lips begin to murmur now,
Child Angela's! The lisping words
Are full of music, like the low
Soft whisperings of dreaming birds;
And with her tiny foot the time
Is beaten to the measured words.

Oh, ever so be near to soothe
Her soul, some poet's sweetest song!
And never harsher note afflict
Her ear; but, all her life along,
Be round her steps and in the air,
When man is mute, an angel's song!

She knows not of my watch of love,
Dear Angela! And soon away
From this deep hillock-girdled glen
Must pass the heart that beats to-day
So near her; but her picture throbs
For ever in it far away.

In lustrous midnights of the south,
When star-shine sleeps among the vines,
And silver'd ripples crown the lakes,
My thoughts shall soar across the lines
Of Alps, and zones of earth and sky,
To her from out the land of vines.

ELEANOR CLARE'S JOURNAL FOR
TEN YEARS.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS. CHAPTER THE THIRD.

June twenty-seventh. I am at bonnie
Burnbank once more, glad of its peace and
quietness and loving ways. Grannie is angry
—(a very remarkable frame of mind for her)
—very angry, at my treatment at Meadowlands.
I have just done all my confession to
her, and she is bent on writing to Mrs. Clay,
but I shall try to persuade her not. Old
Mr. Clay shook hands with me very kindly
when I left, but his wife would not even see
me. Emily fretted, and Herbert drove me
down to Stockbridge to meet the train. We
consider ourselves, and his family consider
us engaged, but there is to be no thought of
our marrying at present, or for years to come
This makes me look on life with strangely
different eyes; so much is accomplished
that there is no scope for the fancies and
visions which make up some girls' youth. I
am glad it is so; now I must set myself
some work to do. Uncle Henry comes over
soon to talk about our settling at Ferndell;
but I have begged Grannie not to speak to
him of Herbert and Meadowlands. Considering
how matters are, I think the engagement
had better be kept quiet. I hate being
speculated upon and watched, as I should be
were it known—especially so much as there
is to know.

June twenty-ninth. Mary Jane Curling
arrived here this afternoon, overflowing with
happiness and consequence, to announce her
approaching marriage with old Sir Simon
Deering. It is a great thing for the family—
the connection, I mean; for Sir Simon is
supposed to have influential friends, who will
help the Curling boys forward in their
professions. She has asked me to be one of the
bridesmaids on the occasion, and Grannie
says I cannot decline without giving offence;
I suppose I must; but if my choice were
given me, I certainly should not. I have
been over to see Miss Lawson and Betsy since
tea, and found them much as they used to be;
both reverted to their chairs, which I gave
them when I came into possession of Uncle
Robert's property. What a dreadful burden
I found that property in idea then! Now, I
am quite used to its possession, and bear it
meekly enough. I don't think, by the bye, if
I were to lose it to-morrow, the loss would
afflict me.

Mrs. Lake, who knows some people in
the neighbourhood of Stockbridge who are
acquainted with all the Clay family, was
asking me about them yesterday in an
inquisitive anxious manner, which caused me
to suspect that she had heard a distorted
version of recent events at Meadowlands, so
I told her what had really occurred.

She felt about it much as Grannie feels;
that is to say, very indignant; and besides,
she did not refrain from insinuating that the
heiress of Ferndell might look higher in the
world than to the son of a manufacturer.
Mrs. Lake does not know Herbert Clay, or
she would not say that. I might have
answered that once a gentleman, always a
gentleman would apply to him, but I
refrained. To compare him with such men as
young Curling, Freddy Price, or Sir Edward
Singleton, seems a positive degradation. But
it vexes me to feel that it is possible for
anybody to look down upon him. If I could
once show him here—his fine countenance,
his intelligent, good countenance—no one
would ever think of speaking slightly of him
again! But I see no chance of that while
our engagement is unsanctioned.

I had a long letter from him to-day, chiefly
written the night of the day I left Meadowlands.
He still harps on the little rustic
cottage, and says it has taken such a fast
hold on his imagination, that he must go
forthwith and examine its interior capabilities
of comfort. He hopes I do not mind
grandeur!

I almost wish now I had told him about
Ferndell at once; but as I did not do it
personally, I shall not tell him by letter—that
would seem to attach more importance to it
than it deserves. I am rather afraid of how
the intelligence may strike him. He is a
proud man, and I remember hearing him
speak once of a person who had his money
through his wife, as a fettered being, who
had sold his liberty for ready cash. At the
same time he declared that he would never
be indebted to his wife for anything!