CHAPTER XII.

"Willows whiten, aspens quiver,

Little breezes dusk and shiver

Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river."

TENNYSON.

A BRIGHT July morning, about seven o'clock, and, oh! how sweet and lovely a morning it is!

The soft, misty air is blending every object into beauty; the wind is swaying among the branches of the huge oaks that overhang the path through the wood, rising and falling in such gentle swells, and clothed with underwood of every tint and every form. Here towers the black, shining holly; and there plays the pendent beech; and there the light aspen throws its slender column into the sky, and shivers in the breeze; and there the ash and the hazel, tuft above tuft,

mingle with the pyramids of larch and pine, that here and there break out among them; and the mavis is singing upon the top of a tree, and the blackbird piping in the thick bushes, and the squirrel leaping from bough to bough. All nature rejoicing in her tranquil liberty, undisturbed by foot of man at that early hour.

But Gideon has wandered out in his solitude, and is there sitting upon the grass behind a thick holly-bush, from which he commands a view of a long, meandering path, ending in a seat at some distance, but from which path he himself cannot be seen. He is watching a spotted woodpecker, busy at work upon an ancient oak, with shaggy withered arms, close by. He hears voices, and then, from behind the thicket, round which the path wound, he sees two figures

emerge.

A gentleman in a morning dress, who holds a little girl by the hand.

Above three years it had been since he had seen them, but he recollected them both perfectly.

Mr. Chandos, for he it was, was dressed in a

light morning-coat which harmonised with his delicate complexion; his fine features still preserved all their symmetry and beauty, but the melancholy and depression of his air were much increased since we saw him last. The little girl in his hand has exchanged her three years for six, and the sweet baby is become a neat, sprightly-looking, extremely pretty, but still extremely small, little girl: she is dressed in a pink and white striped frock, as simply as possible; has a little white tippet round her neck, and a straw bonnet tied with a green riband upon her head.

Gideon had never forgotten her. She had been the fairy queen of all his poetic dreams—the sweet spirit attendant upon all his fancies—and now the boy saw her again.

She was prattling cheerfully away to her father; and every now and then uttering little shrieks of delight as some beautiful object or another struck her eye-some butterfly fluttered past, some bird glanced across her path-alive to every new sensation, excited to innocent ecstasy by every thing that was beautiful or fair.

Sometimes she loosed his hand and started off into the thicket, while he stood following her with his eye, then she ran back, took hold of his hand, and went on prattling as before.

How fondly, how proudly, how devotedly, did Mr. Chandos follow with his eyes this sweet child! his only earthly treasure!-consolation of a disappointed heart, enlivener of a too morbid sensibility, spring of perennial peace and joy!

And how intently, how devouringly, did Gideon watch her as she passed along!

From that day he no longer sought the thickets to hide himself from the children-to escape the sound of their merriment, in which he was not allowed to partake, and indulge his melancholy and his resentment alone.

From that day he was always creeping about in the underwood, as near to the group as he could steal undiscovered, watching them at their play. In this new and interesting occupation he seemed to have forgotten his painful sense of mortification, and to be so intent upon observing what was going on as to be quite satisfied.

He enjoyed, in truth, this solitude to which he

was condemned by their pride and unkindness because he could watch one being without interruption.

There she was among the rest,—the sweetest, the gayest, the most active, the most obliging, the most busy and enterprising of them all. Little as she was, she made her way without difficulty. She was always at the head of every scheme, and the most forward in every enterprise. Her spoil of nosegays was the biggest when they came home from their walks in the fields-her little frock the most full of moss and pebbles and childish treasures.

When they played at burnball or trapball, who ran about with the activity of little Kitty? who threw the ball with a better aim-who scrambled up the pony more readily-or played at old man and ass more happily? feeding the old pet ass with bundles of grass, which she was never weary of collecting for him. No little busy bee was ever more busy or cheerful than she.

The great boys were ready to eat her up. The elder girls petted her; the little ones doted upon her. Ever active and gay-ever sweet-tempered