you for all the news of Gan-Eden, and all the
gossip of the town. You must go up to the
old place now and then, James, for my sake,
and feed my poor little squirrels. Dear old
Gan-Eden!"

She looked wistfully up at me, and her
tears began to fall.

"You have been so good, so kind!" she
murmured. "Oh, what shall I do without
you?"

God bless her! If they had but left her
with me for those autumn months, and I had
felt it not dishonourable to make the attempt,
she would have loved me, I am sure.

When I had seated her in the coach beside
her aunt, she leaned from the window, and
put back her veil.

"James."

I turned back when I heard my name, and
went up to her. There were no careless
bystanders looking on, none but those who
knew and loved her, and who were incapable
of misconstruing anything her loving heart
might make her do. As I stood beside her,
she put her hand upon my shoulder, and
whispered in my ear, "Do not forget Lucy!"
Something warmer than the sun-shine, something
sweeter than the south-wind, something
softer than the new-fallen snow and quite as
pure, just touched my cheek, and the stage
rattled away, and bore her from me.

I put that timid, innocent kiss away
within my heart, and going to my room in
a bustling hotel, locked myself in for the
remainder of the day. Many years have
come and gone, and my cheek has grown
pale and thin, but Lucy's last farewell is
remembered as vividly as in those first hours
after I had lost her.

Who will wonder to hear me say I did not
keep the promise I had made? I did write
once or twice, but the letters I got in
return, only wrung my heart; and it was
a relief to me when I left Woodstock, and
so could let my wanderings plead as the
best excuse for my silence. Her quiet friendship
was no return for the love that pained
every fibre of my being, and I knew it was
best to sever every tie that bound me to her,
at once. I wrote the farewell I dared not
trust myself to speak, and made it as cold
and calm as even her lover could have
wished. Then I went for the last time to
Gan-Eden, and spent one whole day in the
places we had loved. My last visit was to
the house, which still stood empty. I did not
enter by the usual way, but crossed the brook,
from the hill, and went round to the back of
the house. At a low window, through which
Tiger used to escape when his mistress had
confined him to the house, lest he should
follow us, I stopped, and raising the sash,
looked in. The oak garlands which she had
hung with her own hands upon the walls,
rustled drily as the cold wind blow. I saw
a single faded rose lying on the floor. She
had worn it in her hair on the evening of her
departure, and I had seen her take it out and
throw it aside before she tied on her hat.  I
had intended to secure it then, but
something had drawn my attention away, and
through all these weary weeks, it had been
waiting for me, that it might speak to
me of her. Poor faded thing! I entered
the room, and put the dead rose carefully
in my breast. My footsteps made a hollow
sound upon the decaying floor, and the
squirrel, fat and sleek as ever, ran from a
hiding-place behind the door, and vanished
through the window. It was a pleasure, at
least, to think the little fellow had not fallen
into neglectful hands since she had gone. I
leaped out upon the ground again, took one
long last look into the dear old room, shut
down the window, and turned away, From
that hour there was no Gan-Eden for me,
save in my dreams.

I went away, to the land of gold. My
fortune was already sufficient for all my wants,
but I felt that stirring and striving within
me which must be silenced, and I knew no
better course to take. I plunged into the
wildest speculations, and bought and sold
at such daring risks that those who had
known me in my quiet and steady days, said
I had gone mad. And so I had— and yet I
prospered, because success was nothing to me.
Like King Midas, everything I touched
turned to gold— till the sight of it became
for the almost hateful to me.

Now came the time when I might have
filled Lucy's place, had I wished it. Beautiful
women looked kindly on the buttefly,
who would have spurned the caterpillar,
But I had grown moody and reserved, and
their smiles and blandishments fell on me
like sunshine on granite. If ever I sat
by my lonely fireside and thought of
marriage, the words of the gentle Elia, came
to my mind. "The children of Alice call
Bertram father," and I sighed, and stirred
the coals, and let my thoughts wander away.

It was a selfish life, as well as a lonely one.
But one day there came a change. It was
ushered in by a terrible illness, and a suffering
like unto death. When it passed, I was another
man. The angel had "troubled the waters;"
a Hand which was not mortal had laid me in
the pool; my eyes were opened, and my
infirmities were healed. I saw that if all
that could make earth glad and beautiful, had
been taken from me, it was only that I might
learn to lay up treasure in Heaven, where
neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and
thieves cannot break through nor steal. I
heard the poor crying out on every side for
succour, and when I was able, I gave it, for
the sake of Him who held the poor in loving
remembrance. It is most true that no good
work which is done in the name and for
the sake of God, can ever lose its reward.
Even while I was thus holding the " cup of
cold water," to the parched lips of His little