*

blithe sounds than the gleesome laugh of the Countess' gentlewoman, or echoed a lighter measure than their gentle tripping along the galleries. And yet, verily, there are those who preserve their gravity and their sadness in the midst of all our revels, like a black cloud scudding athwart the azure splendor of a noontide heaven, impressing a frown on the face of nature, even whilst the gay scene flings joy and gladness over the whole earth, and would woo it to display a thousand dimples."

Lewen smiled; it was a smile of effort-an appropriation of the Page's remark to himself.

"They whose countenances lower ominously over the scenes which adapt themselves so exquisitely to your gay temperament, are the Countess of Arding and her Confessor, I imagine," said he. "Oh, no, no!" replied Altham quickly. "These be they who are clad,

day after day, in the colour of the grave, who walk amongst us like spectres swathed in their cerements, and whom we would be surprised to see in any other garb. No, no; the night-shade springing up above a grave, I mark not,it is on its native soil: I would start rather to find roses blooming there. It is when we see the poisonous weed luxuriating over a gay parterre appropriated to brilliant flowers of many colourings, that we shudder and wish it were not so. The angry billows may lash against a rock, and we may watch their foam, smiling at the recklessness of their fury, and knowing that they shall not shake the everlasting foundations of the barrier against which they beat. But when the angry surges swell over some light pleasure-vessel, freighted with those gallant creatures who seem to bespeak admiration and favour even of the elements, oh, then our hearts beat, and our

bosoms heave, and our eyes fill, and we clasp our hands and raise our looks to Heaven, and ask for mercy for them!".

Lewen smiled again, but it was a

smile of a different character from the former. It was elicited by the enthu siasm of the boy, and it mingled an expression of pity and wonder.

"You seem to have lived in a world of poetry and vision," said he. "Your imagination inundates your mind, and its torrent sweeps away every trace of resemblance to those of your capacity and bearing. In truth, fair Sir, in conversing you touch some accordant note in the mind of your companion, which echoes your own strain, and produces tones, of which it might have been deemed that his peculiar instrument was incapable. One would imagine, that those hearts were indeed shut out from all possibility of admitting joyous impressions, that could resist the influence

of your gaiety in its happiest mood of sportiveness."

Lewen ceased, and Altham's eye paused on his countenance with an intense effort at penetrating his very heart. The Page retreated from that scrutiny with an expression half animated, half doubting, hesitatingly joyous, whilst light and shade alternated so rapidly, that it was impossible to decide which predominated. The eye was radiant in tears, but the mouth was surrounded by innumerable dimples; the cheek was flushed, but the observer traced not, with certainty, the source of that bright crimson. He gazed on Lewen with a look, that blended astonishment with a more fervent feeling. Hitherto Lewen s address to himself, whether friendly, or whether the incontrollable result of some powerful excitement, had consistently preserved a tone of censure. His very

admiration had been equivocal,-the tribute paid, as if compulsively, to talent, whilst his judgment revolted from the causes which brought that talent into play, and the purposes for which it was put in action. But now he had bestowed decided applause; his countenance blended its accordant harmony with the approbation of his language. The heart of the Page thrilled with unimaginable ecstacy; his arms were crossed on his breast, and unconsciously he bowed his head on them. The action was only momentary; but it expressed the vassalage of mind, of feeling it indicated the homage paid by an extraordinary soul to an intelligence of superior powers, which that soul comprehended, appreciated, without possessing.

But these inexplicable emotions passed away, and Lewen had not perceived them. He had remained for