last, there is a wildness, an avoidance of common motifs and common treatment, which has made them proverbially obscure or at least enigmatical."

"What then, Lucy, would you consider Beethoven's own manner?"

"It is very hard to say. I often think that one detects him purely by his excellence. When we hear an air of the most perfect simplicity, depth, and tenderness conjoined, we know that it is Beethoven's, simply because it is free from even that graceful mannerism which we feel-for we may not venture to call it more-in Mozart or Handel, not to 'speak of the lesser stars."

Amongst whom I am afraid you include even my favourite Weber."

"With all his greatness, Weber, as it seems to me, has a poverty of ideas, which shows itself in a too frequent recurrence to certain exquisitely sweet musical phrases; but when he is great, he is great indeed."

"Do you know his 'Preciosa,' for which I have a "special liking?"

"I only know one or two detached airs from it, Edward; but I will willingly try and learn more, if you care to hear them."

"I am very fond of the name. You know one is much influenced by names," said Edward.

In the joy of his heart, exhausting the brief and ever-recurring nomenclature of affection, he had often, as we have seen, thought of Lucy Ledyard to himself under the name of the heroine of that ex

J

quisite opera. Every conflicting sensation of the day passed had now softened down into a calm and unalloyed sweetness, that reached its purest depth in Lucy's touch of obliging readiness, so priceless and expressive from those in whom truth and simplicity leave no space for compliment. "Preciosa mia!" he cried to himself-darkness giving freedom I to thought "my own precious Lucy!" He slackened his pace unconsciously.

Again his thoughts traversed the events of the day. The morning, with its all-too-presaging realities, was already seen through the golden halo cast over it by the happy hours of her frank and confiding companionship. An inexpressible lightness and airiness of soul came over him, a transfiguring transparency, as it were, of being, which those only know for whom Love has consecrated Youth to 1.Purity.

'My dear Edward," Lucy suddenly called out, "what are you thinking of?-here we are at the Lodge gate."

Edward could count up the times when she had thus endearingly addressed him. He rode onwards to the house, and handed Lucy from her horse in silence. His heart knew its own blessedness, and he dared not trust words to intermeddle with it.

CHAPTER XI.

WE here insert portions of the correspondence belonging to the latter part of Edward's Lenton visit. These letters will speak for themselves, and bring the history up to the point at which it was dropt at the close of the third chapter.

CATHERINE TO EDWARD.

My dear Brother,

11, Grosvenor Street, June 10.

In other absences of mine from home, you have mostly been beforehand with me. I mean to begin this time. Aunt Lucy's relations are very kind, and I have hitherto enjoyed my stay exceedingly. I have been to the opera, and one or two picture galleries.

*

*

*

*

*

I long for more news of Arthur and of his doings. Indeed, dear Edward, I think I can look into your heart and read your feelings in the matter. If they are not those of perfectly unalloyed satisfaction, I can excuse you. But yet I take heart, remembering that the best things are of slowest growth :

"All precious things, discovered late,
To those that seek them issue forth;
For love in sequel works with fate,

And draws the veil from hidden worth

-as you might have said, could you have put it so prettily, Edward.

EDWARD TO CATHERINE,

Lenton, 14 June.

Thanks for your letter. I wish I could make it a better answer; but, in default of the creations of art, I fear I have only the workmanship of Nature to describe to you, though, indeed, if I could do justice to the fair specimens whom she exhibits at Lenton, I might be more than satisfied.

*

*

*

*

*

Two days after this excursion, Arthur took leave for awhile, to complete the joyous preparations for the wedding. And I almost doubt whether we shall I have the courage to organize another expedition in his absence.

How fortunate it is that there are persons on whom the advance of years exerts less than its customary influence! Time, as he goes by, and the experience of London seasons may work their un-| lucky changes on the Ledyards, but the annual return to the sea-side restores them to their old selves, and me to the happy days which have been mine since my childhood. Emily is perhaps not

altogether successful in breathing out and away the metropolitan vapours, and that too-expressive

"Pallor di viola e d'amor tinto;"

but my dear Lucy reappears in all her natural freshness.

What gentle magic is there in these summer days that works wonders so pleasant? What charm is it that makes them not less restorative than recreative? I have a theory on the subject. You may perhaps arm in defence of the sex; but I sometimes fancy that it is to the absence of their young lady friends that this desirable result is due. I wait for your confirmation of the conjecture.-But how long we shall lose and neglect the creeping hours of time thus uninterruptedly, is uncertain. For no day is as yet fixed for the great event; and yet on Arthur's account I doubt it cannot be deferred much beyond the end of the present month.

My dear sister,-I owe you so much already, that I should not grieve to be in your debt a little more; for, indeed, without your assistance I find part of the enjoyment even of these friends' society diminished. A "monstrous cantle" is cut out of it for want of a fitting interpreter. I do not think I am naturally sentimental, yet somehow I seem to find myself too romantic and sentimental for my society. Lucy laughs almost too much. There it is: I wish for a sigh-a more sympathetic look, at times. Were you here, I should feel a bond of union supplied. Then I should be as a brother of the house,—now I