impassioned nature, and the simple wonder and strange alarm of a listener
who pitied but could not sympathize. Some great worldly distinction of
rank between the two became visible,--that distinction seemed to arm the
virtue and steel the affections of the lowlier born. Then a few
sentences, half blotted out with tears, told of wounded and humbled
feelings,--some one invested with authority, as if the suitor's parent,
had interfered, questioned, reproached, counselled. And it was evident
that the suit was not one that dishonoured; it wooed to flight, but still
to marriage.

And now these sentences grew briefer still, as with the decision of a
strong resolve. And to these there followed a passage so exquisite, that
Leonard wept unconsciously as he read. It was the description of a visit
spent at home previous to some sorrowful departure. He caught the
glimpse of a proud and vain, but a tender wistful mother, of a father's
fonder but less thoughtful love. And then came a quiet soothing scene
between the girl and her first village lover, ending thus: "So she put
M.'s hand into her sister's, and said, 'You loved me through the fancy,
love her with the heart,' and left them comprehending each other, and
betrothed."

Leonard sighed. He understood now how Mark Fairfield saw, in the homely
features of his unlettered wife, the reflection of the sister's soul and
face.

A few words told the final parting,--words that were a picture. The long
friendless highway, stretching on--on--towards the remorseless city, and
the doors of home opening on the desolate thoroughfare, and the old
pollard-tree beside the threshold, with the ravens wheeling round it and
calling to their young. He too had watched that threshold from the same