CHAPTER XVI.

Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call to-day his own;
He who, secure within, can say,

To-morrow do thy worst, for I have lived to-day.
Be fair or foul, or rain or shine,

The joys I have possess'd, in spite of fate, are mine.
Not Heaven itself upon the past has power,

But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.
JOHN DRYDEN.

Having been bold enough to quote Pope at the head of the last chapter, pardon me, readers, if I am bold enough to swerve from the opinions of that well-known clever writer. What could Pope have been thinking of when he says, When men grow virtuous

in their old age, they only make a sacrifice

to God of the devil's leavings?"

It is well that we do not choose to adopt this fearful maxim; it is well that repentance comes never too late, and that we offer up the sins at the shrine of oblivion, whilst we cultivate again those seeds of virtue which have lain too long upon a barren soil.

To live well in youth, to improve in manhood, and as far as possible be perfect in old age, this is, indeed, a fairer portrait than that of repentance; but still we gladly hail a penitent's tear, and there is, we are told, joy in heaven when an erring soul returns to the true fold; Pope, therefore, speaks in the axiom of worldly lore, not in heavenly reflection.

Lord and Lady Cunnington were of the old-fashioned school, unfashionable enough to make moral comments on the conduct of their friends, and were, though far advanced in the experience of the world, still suffici

ently unsophisticated to look with a lenient eye upon the faults and failings of their fellow-men.

Long and deep was the conversation the worthy pair held respecting Lord Sevridge, and Lord Cunnington's words were hailed by his sweet wife as follows:

"Oh, my

dear lord, I am not surprised! did you speak more severely you would belie your own heart."

"And that I had better not do," replied the nobleman; " for out of the heart better things come than from the mind, which has been, perhaps, warped by its intercourse with the world: yes, we will cherish and love Alice Lemington, and in loving the child we will forgive the father."

"And in making Alice happy, we will secure the like happiness to our son: ah, my dear lord, that son will yet, methinks, be our joy and pride! I trust this

is not the vain imagining of a mother's heart."

"I trust not, I trust not; and when I am no more, when my eyes are for ever closed in sleep, when my heart ceases to beat, and life's pulses are still, oh, may Augustus ever remember that the sweetest voice that has ever spoken in his father's ears, was that serene whispering of a conscience not burdened with any wanton vice!"

Speak not of thy end yet, my beloved, my own husband! see how my tears flow, and my voice trembles when it would be firm; speak not yet of thy end."

Blessings on thee for loving me so well, my own sweet wife! and blessings on thee for all thy soothing care! the rose has not yet faded from thy cheek, though its leaves are somewhat paler, and its hues less vivid; thine eyes have yet all their winning beauty, and I fain would have lived even to see

the gradual decay of all thy charms-but God's will be done!"

These last words were healing to Lady Cunnington's feelings, but her mellow voice was choked with tears, as she pressed the invalid's hands in her own, and replied—

Yes, beloved, God's will be done! yet, nevertheless, we mortals repine in thoughts if not in words; and I who have thought much of my own death am not prepared to lose the being I love best on earth. I looked forward to dying before thee, my own! I have often prayed to draw my last breath on thy bosom, my head encircled with thy faithful arms; I have prayed that thine may be the last words which should fall upon my ears, my beloved, my dearest joy!"

As clear water falling gently in a cascade below were the words which saluted the invalid's ears; there was no phantom imagination of grief in Lady Cunnington's bosom; she felt