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774 which the listeners breathe, the flute's mellow gush streams along. The sun slopes in peace toward the west; not a cloud in those skies, clearer seen through you boughs stripped of leaves, and rendering more vivid the evergreen of the arbute and laurel.

Lionel and Sophy are now seated on yon moss-grown trunk; on either side the old gray-haired man, as if agreeing for a while even to forget each other, that they may make him feel how fondly he is remembered. Sophy is resting both her hands on the old man's shoulder, looking into his face, and murmuring in his ear with voice like the coo of a happy dove. Ah! fear not, Sophy; he is happy too—he, who never thinks of himself. Look—the playful smile round his arch lips; look—now he is showing off Sir Isaac to Vance; with austere solemnity the dog goes through his tricks; and Vance, with hand stroking his chin, is moralizing on all that might have befallen had he grudged his three pounds to that famous !

Behind that group, shadowed by the Thorn-tree, stands the , thoughtful and grave, foreseeing the grief that must come to the old man with the morrow, when he will learn that a guilty son nears his end, and will hasten to comfort Jasper's last days with pardon. But the Preacher looks not down to the death-couch alone; on and high over death looks the Preacher! By what words heavenly mercy may lend to his lips shall he steal away, yet in time, to the soul of the dying, and justify murmurs of hope to the close of a life so dark with the shades of its past? And to him, to the Preacher, they who survive—the two mourners—will come in their freshness of sorrow! He the old man? Nay, to him there will be comfort. His spirit Heaven's kindness had tempered to trials; and, alas! for that son, what could father hope more than a death free from shame, and a chance yet vouchsafed for repentance? But she, the grim, iron-gray woman? The Preacher's interest, I know, will soon center on her:—And balm may yet fall on thy wounds, thou poor, grim, iron-gray, loving woman!

Lo! that traitor, the flute-player, over whom falls the deep grateful shade from the eaves of the roof-tree reprieved; though unconscious as yet of that happy change in the lot of the master, which, ere long, may complete (and haply for sons sprung in truth from the blood of the Darrell) yon skeleton pile, and consummate, for ends nobler far, the plan of a grand life imperfect:—though as yet the musician nor knows nor conjectures the joy that his infamous treason to Sophy so little deserves; yet, as if by those finer perceptions of sense, impressed, ere they hap-