Chapter 15

My mind is like a vessel tossed at sea By winds and waves--her helm and compass lost; No friendly hand to guide her o'er the waste, Or point to rocks and shoals that yawn beneath.--S.M.

The day after his uncle's funeral, as Anthony sat alone in the good rector's study, pondering over his recent loss, painfully alive to his present condition, and the uncertainty of his future prospects, he was informed by the servant that a gentleman wished to see him.

Since Algernon's death, he and Godfrey had not met except at the funeral, in which they had assisted as chief mourners. He was very anxious to speak to his cousin, and consult with him about their private affairs; and he obeyed the summons with alacrity. Instead of the person whom he expected to see, a well-dressed intelligent-looking young man advanced to meet him.

"Mr. Anthony Hurdlestone," he said, "I hope you will not consider my present visit an intrusion, when I inform you that I am your near kinsman, the son of that Edward Wildegrave who held the office of judge for so many years in India, in which country he died about six years ago. My father and your mother were first cousins by the father's side. Brought up in a distant part of England, I never had an opportunity of falling in with the only remaining branch of the Wildegrave family; and it was not until the death of my father, which left me an independent man, that I was even aware of your existence. A few months ago I bought the property of Milbank, in the parish of Ashton, which once belonged to my unfortunate uncle; and I heard your history from the wife of our farm servant, Ruth Candler. This led me to make many inquires about you; and Ruth's relations were fully confirmed by the statements of my lawyer. His account of your early trials and singular position created in my mind such an intense interest in your fate, that I lost no time in riding over to offer my services, and a share of my house until you can arrange your plans for the future. I hope you will not refuse to grant me this favor. My offer is made in the sincerity of friendship; and I shall be deeply disappointed if you refuse to accept it."

"I will most thankfully accept it," said Anthony, his fine face glowing with pleasure at this unexpected meeting. "But are you certain, Mr. Wildegrave, that my doing so will in no way inconvenience you?"

"Inconvenience me? a bachelor! Your society will be a great acquisition."

"And poor Ruth Candler--is she still living? She was a mother to me during my motherless infancy, and I shall be so glad to see her again. As to you, Mr. Wildegrave, I cannot express half the gratitude I feel for your disinterested kindness. The only circumstance which casts the least damp upon the pleasure I anticipate in my visit to Ashton, is the near vicinity of my father, who may take it into his head to imagine that I come there in order to be a spy upon his actions."

"I know the unhappy circumstances in which you are placed; yet I think that we shall be able to overrule them for your good. However disagreeable your intercourse with such a man must be, it is not prudent to lose sight of him altogether. While you are in his immediate neighborhood, he cannot easily forget that he has a son. That artful designing old scoundrel, Grenard Pike, will do all in his power to keep you apart. Your living with me will not affect Mr. Hurdlestone's pocket; and his seeing you at church will remind him, at least once a week, that you are alive."

"Church! Can a man destitute of charity feel any pleasure in attending a place of worship, that teaches him that his dearest enjoyment is a deadly sin?"

"It seems a strange infatuation; but I have remarked, that, let the weather be what it may, neither cold nor heat, nor storm nor shine, ever keeps Mark Hurdlestone from church. He is still in the old place; his fine grey locks flowing over his shoulders, with as proud and aristocratic an expression on his countenance as if his head were graced with a coronet, instead of being bound about with an old red handkerchief, which he wears in lieu of a hat; the rest of his person clothed in rags, which a beggar would spurn from him in disdain."

"Is he insensible to the disgust which his appearance must excite?"

"He seems perfectly at ease. His mind is too much absorbed in mental calculations to care for the opinion of any one. If you sit in the family pew, which I advise you to do, you will have to exercise great self-control to avoid laughing at his odd appearance."

"I am too much humiliated by his deplorable aberration of mind to feel the least inclination to mirth. I wish that I could learn to respect and love him as a father should be respected and loved; but since my last visit to Ashton my heart is hardened against him. A dislike almost amounting to loathing, has usurped the place of the affection which nature ever retains for those who are bound together by kindred ties."

"If you were more accustomed to witness his eccentricities you would be less painfully alive to their absurdity. Use almost reconciles us to anything. If you were to inhabit the same house with Mark Hurdlestone, and were constantly to listen to his arguments on the love of money, you might possibly fall in love with hoarding, and become like him a worshipper of gold."

"Avarice generally produces a reaction in the minds of those who witness its effects," said Anthony. "I will not admit the truth of your proposition, for experience has proved that the son of a miser commonly ends in being a spendthrift."

"With some exceptions," said Frederic Wildegrave, with a good-humored smile. "But really, when he pleases, your father can be a sensible, agreeable companion, and quite the gentleman. The other day I had a long chat with him, partly upon business, partly from curiosity. I wanted to buy from him an odd angle of ground, about half an acre, that made an awkward bite into a favorite field. I went to him, and, knowing his habits, I offered him at once the full value of the land. He saw that my heart was set upon the purchase, and he trebled the price. I laughed at him; and we held a long palaver of about two hours, and never came one inch nearer to the settlement of the question. At length I pulled out my purse, and counted the gold down upon the table before him. 'There is the money,' I said. 'I have offered you, Mr. Hurdlestone, the full value of the land. You can take it or leave it.'

"The sight of the gold acted upon him like the loadstone upon the needle. He began counting over the pieces; his fingers literally stuck to them. One by one they disappeared from my sight, and when all were gone, he held out his hand and begged for one guinea more. I put the pen into his hand, and the paper before him; he sighed heavily as he signed the receipt for the full sum, and told me that I was a prudent young man; that I deserved to be rich; and must succeed in the world, for I knew as well how to take care of my money as he did. He then entered upon subjects of more general interest, and I was so much pleased with his talents and general information (chiefly obtained, I believe, from books, which are his sole amusement, and with which he is amply furnished from the library at the Hall,) that I invited myself to come over and spend an evening with him. The old fox took the alarm at this. He told me that he was quite a recluse, and never received company; but that some evening, when I was quite alone, he would step in and take a cup of coffee with me--a luxury which he has never allowed himself for the last twenty years."

The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Grant. Young Wildegrave entered immediately upon the purport of his visit, and the rector, who had a very large family to support upon very limited means, readily consented to Anthony's removal to Ashton.

The morning was spent in preparing for his journey, and not without a feeling of regret Anthony bade adieu to his kind host, and the place in which he had passed the only happy years of his life.

As his friend slowly drove through Norgood Park, and past Hazelwood Lodge, he turned an anxious gaze towards the house. Why did the color flush his cheek as he hastily looked another way? Juliet was standing in the balcony, but she was not alone; a tall figure was beside her. It was Godfrey Hurdlestone, and the sight of him at such a time, and so situated, sent a pang of anguish through the heart of the young lover.

Frederic Wildegrave marked the deep dejection into which his companion had fallen, and rightly concluded that some lady was the cause. "Poor fellow," thought he, "has he, to add to his other misfortunes, been indiscreet enough to fall in love?"

Wishing to ascertain if his suspicions were true, he began to question Anthony about the inhabitants of the Lodge, and soon drew from his frank and confiding cousin the history of his unhappy passion, and the unpleasant misapprehension that had closed Captain Whitmore's doors against him.

"Well, Anthony," he said, "it must be confessed that you are an unlucky fellow. The sins of your father appear to cast a shadow upon the destinies of his son. Yet, were I in your place, I should write to Captain Whitmore, and clear up this foul stigma that your treacherous cousin has suffered to rest upon your character."

"No," said Anthony, "I cannot do it; I am too proud. She should not so readily have admitted my guilt. Let Godfrey enjoy the advantage he has gained. I swore to his father to be a friend to his son, to stand by him through good and bad report; and though his cruel duplicity has destroyed my happiness, I never will expose him to the only friend who can help him in his present difficulties."

"Your generosity savors a little too much of romance; Godfrey is unworthy of such a tremendous sacrifice."

"That does not render my solemn promise to my uncle less binding. Forbearance on my part is gratitude to him; and my present self-denial will not be without a reward."

Frederic was charmed with his companion, and could Anthony have looked into his heart, he would have been doubly convinced that he was right.

They struck into a lonely cross-country road, and half an hour's smart driving brought them to Wildegrave's residence. It was a pretty farm-house, surrounded by extensive orchards, and a large upland meadow, as smooth as a bowling-green. Anthony was delighted at the locality. The peaceful solitude of the scene was congenial to his feelings, and he expressed his pleasure in lively tones.

"'Tis an old-fashioned place," said Frederic; "but it will not be without interest to you. In that chamber to the right, your grandfather and your mother were born."

"They were both children of misfortune," replied Anthony. "But the fate of my grandfather, although he died upon the scaffold, beneath the cruel gaze of an insulting mob, was a merciful dispensation, to the death by inches which awaited his unhappy child."

"That room," resumed Frederic, "contains the portraits in oil of your grandfather and your mother. The one in the prime of life, the other a gay blooming girl of fifteen. From the happy countenances of both you would never augur aught of their miserable doom."

"You must let me occupy that chamber, cousin Wildegrave. If I may judge by my present prospects, I am likely to inherit the same evil destiny."

"These things sometimes run in families. It is the 'visiting the sins of the fathers upon the children, until the third and fourth generation,'" said Frederic, pulling up his horse at the front gate. "The mantle of the Wildegrave, Anthony, has not descended upon you alone."

On the steps of the house they were welcomed by a very fair interesting-looking girl of sixteen; but so fragile and childlike that she scarcely seemed to have entered upon her teens. She blushed deeply as she received the stranger and her brother.

"Anthony, permit me to introduce you to another cousin. This is my sister Clarissa."

"You did not inform me that you had a sister. This is indeed an unexpected and happy surprise," said Anthony, shaking hands with the young lady.

"I thought it best to introduce all my pets together," returned Wildegrave, patting his sister's meek head. "Clary is a shy, timid, little creature, very unlike your sparkling Juliet, with whom I happen to be personally acquainted; but she is a dear good girl, and the darling of her brother's heart. Her orphan state seems to press painfully upon her young mind. She seldom smiles, and I can never induce her to go into company. But we must try and break her of these monastic habits, for she is not so young as she looks, and by this time she should know her position in society."

"I do not love the world, nor the world's ways, Frederic," said his sister, gravely. "It contains but one happy spot, my own dear tranquil home, and I love it so well, that I never wish to leave it."

"But you must not expect to live at home for ever, Clary," said her brother, as he took his place at the tea-table. "Suppose I was to take it into my head to marry, what would you do then? Perhaps you would not love my wife so well as you do me."

"It is time to prepare for that when she comes," said Clary. "I think I shall live along with you, dear Fred, as long as I require an earthly home."

Something like a sad smile passed over the pensive face of the fair child, for a child she still was, in stature and simplicity.

"And so you shall, my darling. I have no idea of bringing home a new mistress to Millbank; and long may you live to enjoy your birds, and lambs, and dogs, and cats, and all the numerous pets that you have taken upon yourself to adopt and cherish."

"Ah! Fred, that reminds me of a pair of lovely Barbary doves I got to-day from some unknown friend. They came from London by the coach, in a pretty green cage, with no note or message; but simply directed to 'Miss Wildegrave.' I must bring them to show you; they are such loves."

Away ran Clary to fetch her new pets. Frederic looked after her, and laughed. "I sent for the doves, Anthony, as a little surprise. How delighted she is. She is a fragile creature, Cousin Hurdlestone; and I much fear that she will not require my care long. My mother died in giving her birth; and, since the death of my sister Lucy, who was a mother to Clary, the child has drooped sadly. She was always consumptive, and during the last two months I can perceive a great change in her for the worse."

"I do not wonder at your anxiety. Oh, that I had such a sister to love!"

"Love! she was made to love. So gentle, affectionate, and confiding. It would break my heart to lose her."

"You must not anticipate evil. And, after all, Cousin Wildegrave, is death such a dreadful evil to a fair young creature, too good and amiable to struggle with the ills of life? If I were in her place, I think I could exclaim, 'that it was a good and blessed thing to die!'"

"You are right," whispered the sweet low voice of Clarissa Wildegrave. "Death is our best friend. I see, Mr. Hurdlestone, that you and I are related--that we shall love each other, for we think alike."

This would have been a strange speech, could it have been taken in any other sense than the one in which it was meant; and Anthony, as he took the dove, the emblem of purity, from the fair hand of Clary, thought that a beautiful harmony existed between the bird and its mistress.

"I am sure we shall love each other, Miss Wildegrave. Will you accept me as a second brother?"

"I don't want two brothers, Mr. Hurdlestone. I love Frederic so well that I never mean him to have a rival. No; you shall remain my cousin. Cousins often love as well as sisters and brothers."

"And sometimes a great deal better," said Frederic, laughing. "But since you have made up your mind to love Anthony, sit down and give us another cup of tea."

"There is some one below-stairs, Mr. Anthony, who loves you at any rate," continued Clary, after handing the gentlemen their replenished cups. "One who is quite impatient to see you, who is never tired of talking about you, and calls you her dear boy, and says that she never loved any of her own sons better than you."

"Ruth! is she here? Let me see her directly," said Anthony, rising from the table.

"Sit down, Mr. Hurdlestone. I will ring the bell for her. She can speak to you here."

In a few minutes, a plainly-dressed, middle-aged woman entered the room.

"My dear foster-mother! Is that you?" said Anthony, springing to meet her.

"Why yees, Muster Anthony," said the honest creature, flinging her arms round his neck, and imprinting on either cheek a kiss that rang through the room; while she laughed and cried in the same breath. "The Lord love you! How you bees grown. Is this here fine young gentleman the poor half-starved little chap that used to come begging to Ruth Candler for a sup o' milk and a morsel o' bread? Well, yer bees a man now, and able to shift for yoursel, whiles I be a poor old woman, half killed by poverty and hard work. When you come in for your great fortin, don't forget old Ruth."

"Indeed I will not, my good mother; if ever that day arrives, I shall know how to reward my old friends. But you make a strange mistake, Ruth, when you call yourself old. You look as young as ever. And how are all my old play-fellows?"

"Some dead; some in service; and my eldest gal, Mr. Anthony, is married to a Methody parson, only think, my Sally, the wife of a Methody parson."

"She was a good girl."

"Oh, about as good as the rest on us. And, pray, how do old Shock come along? Is the old dog dead?"

"Of old age, Ruth. He got so fat and sleek in my uncle's house, you never would have known the poor starved brute."

"In truth, you were a poverty pair--jist a bag o' bones the twain o' ye. I wonder the old Squire warn't ashamed to see you walk the earth. An' they do tell me, Measter Anthony, that he be jist as stingy as ever."

"Age seldom improves avarice."

"Why, nothing gets the better for being older, but strong beer. An' that sometimes gets a little sourish with keeping."

Anthony took the hint. "Ah, I remember. Your husband was very fond of ale--particularly in harvest-time You must give him this, to drink my health." And he slipped a guinea into her hand. "And to-morrow, when I come over the hill, I shall expect him to halloo largess."

"The Lord love you, for a dear handsome young gentleman. An' my Dick will do that with the greatest of pleasure." And, with an awkward attempt at a curtsey, the good woman withdrew.

After chatting some little time with Frederic and Clary, Anthony retired to the room appropriated to his use.

The quiet, unobtrusive kindness of his young relatives had done much to soothe and tranquillize his mind; and he almost wished, as he paced to and fro the narrow limits of his airy little chamber, that he could forget that he had ever known and loved the beautiful and fascinating Juliet Whitmore.

"Why should mere beauty possess such an influence over the capricious wandering heart of man?" he thought; "yet it is not beauty alone that makes me prefer Juliet to the rest of her sex. Her talents, her deep enthusiasm, captivate me more than her handsome face and graceful form. Oh, Juliet! Juliet! why did we ever meet? or is Godfrey destined to enact the same tragedy that ruined my uncle's peace, and consigned my mother to an early grave?"

As these thoughts passed rapidly through his mind, his eyes rested upon his mother's picture. It was the first time that he had ever beheld her but in dreams. Radiant in all its girlish beauty, the angelic face smiled down upon him with life-like fidelity. The rose that decked her dark floating locks, less vividly bright than the glowing cheeks and lips of happy youth; the large black eyes, "half languor and half fire," that had wept tears of unmitigated anguish over his forlorn infancy--rested upon his own, as if they were conscious of his presence. Anthony continued to gaze upon the portrait till the blinding tears hid it from his sight.

"Oh, my mother!" he exclaimed, "better had it been for thee to have died in the bloom of youth and innocence, than to have fallen the victim of an insidious--villain," he would have added, but that villain was his father; and he paused without giving utterance to the word, shocked at himself that his heart had dared to frame the impious word his conscience forbade him to speak.

What a host of melancholy thoughts crowded into his mind while looking on that picture. The grief and degradation of his early days: his dependent situation while with his uncle: the unkind taunts of his ungenerous cousin; his blighted affections and dreary prospects for the future. How bitterly did he ponder over these!

What had he to encourage hope, or give him strength to combat with the ills that beset him on every side? Homeless and friendless, he thought, like Clary, that death would be most welcome, and sinking upon his knees, he prayed long and fervently for strength to bear with manly fortitude the sorrows which from his infant years had been his bitter portion.

Who ever sought counsel of God in vain? An answer of peace was given to his prayers. "Endure thou unto the end, and I will give thee a crown of life." He rose from his knees, and felt that all was right; that his present trials were awarded to him in mercy; that had all things gone on smoother with him, like Godfrey, he might have yielded himself up to sinful pleasures, or followed in the footsteps of his father, and bartered his eternal happiness for gold.

"This world is not our rest. Then why should I wish to pitch my tent on this side of Jordan, and overlook all the blessings of the promised land? Let me rather rejoice in tribulations, if through them I may obtain the salvation of God."

That night Anthony enjoyed a calm refreshing sleep. He dreamed of his mother, dreamed that he saw her in glory, that he heard her speak words of comfort to his soul, and he awoke with the rising sun, to pour out his heart in thankfulness to Him who had bestowed upon him the magnificent boon of life.

The beauty of the morning tempted him to take a stroll in the fields before breakfast. In the parlor he had left his hat and cane. On entering the room to obtain them, he found Clary already up and reading by the open window. "Good morning, gentle coz," and he playfully lifted one of the glossy curls that hid her fair face from his view. "What are you studying?"

"For eternity," said Clarissa, in a sweet solemn tone, as she raised to his face her mild serious eyes.

"'Tis an awful thought."

"Yes. But one full of joy. This is the grave, cousin Anthony. This world to which we cling, this sepulchre in which we bury our best hopes, this world of death. That which you call death is but the gate of life; the dark entrance to the land of love and sunbeams."

What a holy fire flashed from her meek eyes as she spoke! What deep enthusiasm pervaded that still fair face! Could this inspired creature be his child-like simple little cousin? Anthony continued to gaze upon her with astonishment, and when the voice ceased, he longed to hear her speak again.

"Tell me, Clary, what power has conquered, in your young heart, the fear of death?"

"Truth!--simple truth. That mighty pillar that upholds the throne of God. I sought the truth. I loved the truth, and the truth has made me free. Death! from a child I never feared death.

"I remember, Anthony, when I was a very little girl, so young that it is the very first thing that memory can recall, I was sick, and sitting upon the ground at my dear sister Lucy's feet. My head was thrown back upon her lap, and it ached sadly. She patted my curls, and leaning forward, kissed my hot brow, and told me, 'That if I were a good girl when I died I should go to heaven.' Eagerly I asked her--What was death, and what was heaven?

"Death, she told me, was the end of life here, and the beginning of a new life that could never end, in a better world. That heaven was a glorious place, the residence of the great God, who made me and the whole world. But no pain or sorrow was ever felt in that blissful place. That all the children of God were good and happy.

"I wept for joy when she told me all this. I forgot my pain. I longed to die and go to heaven; and from that hour death became to me a great anticipation of future enjoyment. It mingled in all my thoughts. It came to me in dreams, and it always wore a beautiful aspect.

"There was a clear deep pond in our garden at Harford, surrounded with green banks covered with flowers, and overhung with willows. I used to sit upon that bank and weave garlands of the sweet buds and tender willow shoots, and build castles about that future world. The image of the heavens lay within the waters, and the trees and flowers looked more beautiful reflected in their depths. Ah, I used to think, one plunge into that lovely mirror, and I should reach that happy world--should know all. But this I said in my simplicity, for I knew not at that tender age that self-destruction was a sin; that man was forbidden to unclose a gate of which the Almighty held the key. His merciful hand was stretched over the creature of his will, and I never made the rash attempt.

"As I grew older, I saw three loved and lovely sisters perish one by one. Each, in turn, had been a mother to me, and I loved them with my whole heart. Their sickness was sorrowful, and I often wept bitterly over their bodily sufferings. But when the conqueror came, how easily the feeble conquered. Instead of fearing the destroyer, as you call Death, they went forth to meet him with songs of joy, and welcomed him as a friend.

"Oh, had you seen my Lucy die! Had you seen the glory that rested upon her pale brow; had you heard the music that burst from her sweet lips ere they were hushed for ever; had you seen the hand that pointed upward to the skies; you would have exclaimed, with her, 'O death, where is thy sting! O grave, where is thy victory?'"

The child paused, for her utterance was choked with tears. Anthony took her hand; he started, for pale as it was, it burnt with an unnatural heat. Fever was in every vein. "Are you ill, Clary?"

"Ill? Oh, no! but I never feel very well. I have had my summons, Anthony; I shall not be long here."

Seeing him look anxiously in her face, she smiled, and going to a corner of the room, brought forward a harp which had escaped his observation, and said, playfully, "I have made you sad, cousin, when I wished to cheer you. Come, I will sing to you. Fred tells me that I sing well. If you love music as I do, it will soon banish sorrow from your heart."

There was something so refreshing in the candor of the young creature, that it operated upon the mind of Anthony like a spell, and when the finest voice he ever in his life heard burst upon his ear, and filled the room with living harmony, he almost fancied he could see the halo encircling the lofty brows of the fair young saint:

The flowers of earth are fair As the hopes we fondly cherish; But the canker-worm of care Bids the best and brightest perish. The heavens to-day are bright, But the morn brings storm and sorrow; And the friends we love to-night May sleep in earth to-morrow.

Spirit, unfold thy drooping wing; Up, up to thy kindred skies. Life is a sad and weary thing; He only lives who dies. His the immortal fruits that grow By life's eternal river, Where the shining waves in their onward flow Sing Glory to God for ever.

These lines were sung to a wild, irregular air, but one full of pathos and beauty.

"You must give me that hymn, Clary."

"It is gone, and the music with it. I shall never be able to remember it again. But I will play you another which will please you better, though the words are not mine." And turning again to the harp, she sang, in a low, plaintive strain, unlike her former triumphant burst of song:

Slowly, slowly tolls the bell, A heavy note of sorrow; But gaily will its blithe notes swell The bridal peal to-morrow, To-morrow!

The dead man in his shroud to-night No hope from earth can borrow; The bride within her tresses bright Shall wreathe the rose to-morrow, To-morrow!

The drops that gem that lowly bier, Though shed in mortal sorrow, Will not recall a single tear In festal halls to-morrow! To-morrow!

'Tis thus through life, from joy and grief, Alternate shades we borrow; To-night in tears we find relief, In smiles of joy to-morrow, To-morrow!

"What divine music!"

"And the words, Cousin Anthony--you say nothing about the words."

"Are both your own?"

"Oh, no; I am only in heart a poet. I lack the power to give utterance to--

'The thoughts that breathe and words that burn.'

They were written by a friend--a friend, whom, next to Fred, I love better than the whole world--Juliet Whitmore."

"And do _you_ know Juliet?"

"I will tell you all about it," said Clary, leaving her harp and sitting down beside him. "After dear Lucy died, I was very, very ill, and Fred took me to the sea-side for the benefit of bathing. I was a poor, pale, wasted, woe-begone thing. We lodged next door to the house occupied by Captain Whitmore, who was spending the summer upon the coast with his family.

"He picked acquaintance with me upon the beach one day; and whenever nurse took me down to bathe, he would pat my cheek, and tell me to bring home a red rose to mix with the lily in my face. I told him, laughingly, 'That roses never grew by the sea shore,' and he told me to come with him to his lodgings and see. And then he introduced me to Juliet, and we grew great friends, for though she was much taller and more womanly, she was only one year older than me. And we used to walk, and talk a great deal to each other, all the time we remained at ----, which was about three months; and, though we have not met since Fred bought Millbank, and came to this part of the country, she often writes to me sweet letters, full of poetry,--such poetry as she knows will please me; and in one of her letters, Cousin Anthony, she wrote a good deal about you."

"About me!--Oh, tell me, Clary, what she said about me."

"She said," replied the child, blushing very deeply, and speaking so low that Anthony could only just catch the words, "that she loved you. That you were the only man she had ever seen that realized her dreams of what man ought to be. And what she said of you made me love you too, and I felt proud that you were my cousin."

"Dear amiable Clary," and the delighted Anthony unconsciously covered the delicate white hand held within his own with passionate kisses.

"You must not take me for Juliet," and Clary quietly withdrew her hand. "But I am so glad that you love her, because we shall be able to talk about her. I have a small portfolio she gave me, full of pretty poems, which I will give to you, for I know all the poems by heart."

Anthony no longer heard her. He was wrapt up in a blissful dream, from which he was in no hurry to awaken. Many voices spake to his soul, but over all, he heard one soft deep voice, whose tones pierced its utmost recesses, and infused new life and hope into his breast, which said--"Juliet loves you.'"