stop in her preparations for bed, and listen. At first she was startled, from the unexpectedness of the noise; but then, aware that the servants were (for once) asleep by this time, she hastily refastened her dress and proceeded down stairs, to open the door herself. She has thrown a shawl over her shoulders, which concealed her figure. The knocking was repeated. Whoever the visitor was, he seemed impatient. At length the heavy bolts were partly withdrawn, when by this time a sleepy footman has sufficiently awoke to help her. The door is open at last, and Alicia prepares to remount the staircase; but a little of woman's curiosity induces her previously to take a look at this unceremonious visitor. He enters, shaking the rain from his cloak and boots. "What! all in bed? Is Mr. or Mrs. Bryanstone at home? I thought I should more likely find some one up here, at this hour in the morning, than anywhere else; but I am afraid I have disturbed your dreams, my good fellow." There was no mistaking the voice, although an Indian sun had bronzed the face, and years had added grace and manliness to the form of the stripling. Alicia could scarcely breathe. She leaned against the wall for support. The now awakened servant led the way up-stairs, and Egan followed. He evidently did not recognize Alicia, for he looked steadily at her in passing, and, mistaking her for a servant, begged she would get a fire lighted as soon as possible in his room, as he had only landed a few hours ago, and was dreadfully cold. She answered not, but bowed her head; and, aware that he had mistaken her for one of the servants, felt secure for the present of remaining unknown to him. Some of the household were soon roused, and Alicia again sought her room, when she found that Egan was likely to have all he could require after his long journey. He had inquired for his child, and insisted upon seeing her, asleep as she was, in her little cot; and Alicia now, for the second time that night, bent over the sleeping infant, all unconscious as it was of her fastfalling tears. She went to bed; but lay awake for the few remaining hours there wanted to the next day. The past was too vividly before her, and so thickly crowded with painful reminiscences, that, after tossing about in a feverish and excited state, she arose unrefreshed, and dressing Lucy herself with more than usual care, proceeded with her to the school-room, trying to amuse the child until her father should send for her, which she expected he would as soon as he was up. The morning passed very slowly, for she had risen before seven, and it was now past ten, when a knock at the door was soon followed by the entrance of Egan himself. Alice curtsied to his salutation; but turned her head, and was about to leave the room, when she saw him sit down to caress Lucy, as if he had no immediate intention of leaving. Had she not had her eyes on the ground when Egan requested her to stay, she would have seen how fixedly he was regarding her. The darkness of the passage, the night before, had prevented his recognising her partially concealed figure; but now he evidently did so, and Alice had trusted too much to fancied alterations rather than real; for it is not the features or complexion, so much as the voice and smile, which leave an impression to be remembered ever afterwards. She did not speak, and she was surprised at his silence; for he sat, holding his child in his arms, and, if replying at all to her questions, so vaguely as to give his hearers the idea that his thoughts were far away. He had come into the school-room himself chiefly to inform Miss Wallace that he proposed going, almost immediately, into the country, and to ask her whether she was willing to go there also; but now he seemed to have forgotten his object, for, after kissing his child, he rose and hastily left the room; and Alice then felt she had done foolishly to put herself in the way of meeting him, as the agitation which accompanied it unfitted her for her daily duties. She could not read, nor instruct Lucy in her A B C (which as yet was the extent of her acquirements), and so she sat with her on her lap, playing with her, curling her hair, and listening to her prattle; and so the day passed, for they could not leave the house, the weather was too bad. Next morning saw Egan again in the schoolroom; and, this time, he said: You are aware, Miss Wallace, perhaps, that I should wish to have Lucy with me. Mrs. I am about to live in the country; and of course Bryanstone has been kind enough hitherto to take care of her for me; but as I purpose remaining in England, I hope, for the rest of my life, I should like to get into shire as soon as possible; and it is about this I have come to speak to you to ask you—” "I had no idea," interrupted Alicia, "that Lucy was to be removed from home; I could not, I am afraid, remain with her if she leaves Mrs. Bryanstone. I am sorry-very sorry-to leave her; but I cannot go into -shire," when she stopped. Egan rang the bell, and desired the nurse to take Lucy away for the present. When she was gone, he said: "It is ridiculous in me, Alice, to pretend that your change of name is a disguise sufficient to prevent my recognizing you. Why do wish you to be so entirely estranged from me as not even to acknowledge me as a friend? I had intended, from what the Bryanstones had told me, of asking you to stay with my child, to take care of her, as you have done; now, of course, that is rendered impossible—at least in the capacity of governess. You do not answer me. If you will not, Alicia, I shall never have courage tell you how my faults have been their own punishment. I will not say that a little less hastiness on your part might have prevented much that has taken place in the history of our two lives." strength, and now she was quite overcome; but still she tried Alicia had over-rated her own to to conceal felt. as much as possible how much she "You may believe me, Sir Egan Dalkeith, when I tell you that had I for a moment thought that your return would have subjected me to this explanation, I should not have been here. I had expected that as your daughter's governess, my position being so different from what it was when we knew each other before, I should have passed unnoticed by you. I had no intention of thus throwing myself in your path; for when I first engaged myself to Mrs. Bryanstone, I was not aware of the relationship existing between yourself and Lucy. If, as you say, you did know me at once, how for a moment could you contemplate ever asking me to accompany you to the country? You might have spared me all this." Egan answered not for the moment; he heard her tears come pattering down on the table, like rain, as she pretended to busy herself about disentangling some wool. Her back was turned towards him. At last he said: "Come and sit down beside me, Alice; I want to speak to you." She did as he wished. In those days when we were engaged to each other-you do not forget them, Alice?" Forget them?" Her sobs told a different tale. "Oh, do not," exclaimed she; "do not revert to that time. If you are man, you should have more pity for me.' "You interrupt me, Alice. It is not pity I feel for you; it is a far deeper feeling. Listen to me, for I am going to tell you a story. When I left for India, Alice, I was a foolish boy-foolish in all respects but one, and that was my love for you. I will not strive to conceal or palliate my faults. Time and absence did serve to cool my affection, for the time. It wanted but your presence and more matured judgment to rivet the links which bound us together; and on my return, when, hearing of your misfortune and recent sorrow, I would have gone to you too gladly to offer you the only home I had, you purposely left me no means of discovering you; and convinced me, by those very measures, that you also saw that our engagement had been built upon sand." Alicia would have spoken; but he stopped her mouth with his hand, that she might hear him to the end. "The letter you wrote me-if you could have known what pleasure that hand-writing gave me, even though on the point of marriage-as you supposed-with my late wife! You caused that marriage, Alicia! I never should have married Emma, but for your throwing me over so entirely; and then your letter so annoyed me, I closed with her more from pique than anything else. The years which I have been away, and the want of mutual affection in my married life, has taught me the worth of love such as ours was. Can it ever be so again, Alice? It is for you to answer me." that He waited for an answer; and she, who before had been so anxious to explain and exculpate herself, now was at a loss for words to reply to a simple question. "It wants but 'yes' or 'no,' dearest; will you not say which?" The old days seemed coming back. Old feelings were there already, and Egan strained Alicia to him, satisfied with no answer so well as her silence. They sat so long together that a winter's afternoon was closing, and still they sat there. Alicia was so happy in her pure love for him that she saw not his faults. She did not think his conduct selfish. She was too glad to believe all he said; he might have said much more-his lips made anything they uttered seem truth. It was doubtless a matter of surprise to many that Sir Egan Dalkeith should marry his governess; but the day for their wedding is now fixed, and I must leave them now that they have started on the road to happiness-or what is generally supposed to be--although they have perhaps a better chance of it than many who undertake the same journey. "On revient toujours à ses premiers amours," says the proverb; though whether for "toujours" one might not read "quelquefois" is another question. THE MAIDEN'S INVOCATION. BY ADA TREVANION. The day hath smiled a mild farewell Hath died along the purple sea. Sweet visions of my absent love. I've laid a charmed and subtle wreath Sweet visions of my absent love. The damask rose, the pansy dim, Its moonlight-coloured chalice fair. The spirit of repose hath breathed A benison those flowers above; Then softly to my slumber come, Sweet visions of my absent love. By all my hopes, by all my fears, The form of him who's far away. He is returned, no more to rove, And bid your sunshine herald truth, Sweet visions of my absent love. Ramsgate, June 14, 1851. MAIDS OF SCENE I. ALL-WORK. light, you shall have your dress again; would MR. SEEDY at the breakfast-table, eats an egg, you come up and fetch it? I'm afeard it might walks impatiently up and down the room, ar- | drop to pieces if I brought it down! I shan't ranges his brutus before the glass, pulls up his be long: the wages is one-pun'-five, if you shirt-wrists, and goes through other panto- please. [Exit SUSAN. mimical forms for beguiling the time, until Enter Mrs. SEEDY and Mr. SEEDY's aunt, Miss RUSHLIGHT. Seedy. Good morning, ladies. Fine domestic management, Mrs. S.-eggs boiled hard enough for blackbirds again! Mrs. S. Well, Seedy, I can't help it; Susan has been told times and times. Seedy [in a voice of thunder]. Dye my whiskers! hold your tongue, and ring the bell! Enter SUSAN, with a boot on one hand, a brush in the other, and a quantity of black lead on her face. All at once. Susan! After an angry parting with Susan, Mrs. Seedy calls in an eccentric female in a black silk bonnet, of remarkable architecture, which piece of furniture she has never been seen without in the memory of the oldest inhabitant. Under the auspices of this respectable individual the breakfast-table is cleared, and “the cat” begins a marauding campaign of tremendous activity in the realms below-cats always do when such queer people invade the kitchen. SCENE II. The SEEDYS and Miss RUSHLIGHT seated round the table to discuss the vexed question of the 66 new servant." Mrs. Seedy [spitefully]. I wonder how Susan feels to-night! She'll soon come to her senses. Seedy. Still, my dear, the place is perhaps rather hard for one girl, and I think we must have a housemaid. With ten lodgers, you know-and lodgers always make so many knives and boots-suppose we have a housemaid? Mrs. Seedy [pathetically to Miss R.] Oh I never! Now, dear aunt, havn't I begged and prayed on my very knees for a second pair of hands? and he never would listen. [To SEEDY]. No, Charles, not two female servants: Susan used to quarrel enough by herself; two would be the death of me! Let me have a little page. Seedy. A little vagabond!—a little wretch! to be fed and pampered just to jump over the No, no. Tell the tradesmen you want a maid posts and play at chuckfarthing in the streets. of all-work, and we'll look out for some coun try orphan (wages, some old clothes) for a housemaid." Mrs. Seedy. Never, again, Seedy, will I tell the tradespeople I want a servant. The grocer actually made a face at his shopman when ! mentioned it to him this morning; and the butcher behaved most shamefully, and said he'd decline looking out-those who had lived with me gave such a bad account of the place. Miss R. And of your temper, dear. Seedy. Oh, advertising costs money. Seedy. Well, how shall I begin [writes]? neat in her person and work. As a housemaid is kept, no beer will be allowed. Seedy [interrupting]. What, on earth, has that to do with the girl's beer? Mrs. Seedy. Why you know its dearer to keep two, so they can't expect so many luxuries: but go on. [Dictates.]" Must not be addicted to letter scribbling, and have no followers, male or female. Cousins in the police force a decided objection. A young woman without any acquaintances in London preferred. She must be an early riser, and always speak the truth. She must be a member of the Church of England; must understand bright grates, cleaning lamps and kid gloves, and must not object to make herself generally useful. To such a young person, £12 a-year (BESIDES SUGAR!) will be given. Apply to C. D.," &c. Miss R. You have not said "washing done at home," love. Mrs Seedy. Oh no; she'll find that out soon enough. SCENE III. MRS. SEEDY and her aunt having had innumerable visits in answer to their advertisement, have not yet found a candidate to suit the place, whom the place will suit. One stands out for a monthly visit from her mother; another for permission to be visited by a young mun" which keeps company with her," and so on through a long list. At last a raw-boned individual, of whose disposition you can scarcely judge from her physiognomy, the knave and the fool being so nicely balanced therein, makes her appearance; and after the orthodox bend of the knees-known to the lower classes as a 66 curtchey" which resembles the forced movement of a Dutch doll, very stiff at the joints—the conversation thus goes on. Mrs. Seedy. Your name? Candidate. Caroline Tibbs. Miss R. We can never call you Caroline! The idea of calling a servant by such a grand name as that! Candidate. If I am to be called out of my name, perhaps it would be considered in the wages? Mrs. Seedy. Oh, don't expect any names we choose to call you will be considered in the wages: for £12 a-year (and sugar!) you ought to be glad to be called names that are not your own! Mrs. Seedy. I don't allow curls! Candidate. Not on holidays? Mrs. Seedy. I give no holidays. dertake all that is mentioned in ment? Can you unmy advertise Candidate. Yes, mum. I an't no friends to speak of at all: I can't abear the pelisse: I don't like beer: I'm a member of the Church of England, and Mrs. Seedy. Are you an early riser ? Candidate. Particklar. If any convenience to the family, would never go to-bed at all. Early rising is my 'abit; I got it by sleeping in a scissors bedstead, which would double up with me in my first sleep, and then I never cared to have any more. Oh, I'm a early riser! Mrs. Seedy. You'll do: you're a jewel! now Miss R. do come directly; we'll both be mothers to you! AN INCENTIVE. BY CHARLES H. HITCHINGS. "The night cometh, when no man can work." Youth's morning light shines clear and bright Within those eyes of thine; Yet, lady fair, good time beware, Not always thus 'twill shine: Ere yet, that light departed, For the night, the night cometh! O kindly looks, Love's golden books For the night, the night cometh! O, seldom heard, thou Christian word, Use while ye may your gentle sway, Ere the night, the night cometh! O foes and friends, the brief time ends O friends and foes, the shadows close Use now each strong endeavour, For the night, the night cometh! LINES WRITTEN IN AN OLD TOWER. Sublimely grand, in twilight's ghostly glimmer, The mountains rear their heads, that own the vine; The star of evening with a fitful shimmer Glances in silvery circles on the Rhine; Like ships becalmed upon a glassy ocean, Cheating the gaze with still inconstant die: All beautifully tranquil, all reposing In fairy softness! On the winding stream The white sail shrouds the mast in idle dozing; And where the lake-like surface takes the gleam The sky seems doubled-lake and sky disclosing Two clouds-two evening stars-as in a dream. The night's rich odours load the fainting air From bursting buds, and vine-bloom's fragrance rare. All still, sublimely still! in holy dreaming Tired Nature sinks with folded arms to rest. The far-off city, late with full life teeming, Hushed like a child upon its mother's breast; And if a murmur comes, it is but seeming, Or the soft dew-drops trickling from the vest Of the green mountain-from the clustering vine, Whose noble berry yields the far-famed wine. The still is broken. From the dreamy river, Of the old stream, who, since the first-day noon That saw his waters rolling, to the Giver Of his full life sings for the mighty boon His gothic lay. And now all saintly dim Marienklôster lends her vesper hymn. How sad, how silent now, the hall is standing Where trod the warrior, and the minstrel sung; The ivy with its sombre wreath is banding The fretted wall where once the banner hung; Gone are the rafters from the broken landing; The watch-tower, by Time's mighty hand o'erflung, Sleeps lowly now, where never warder's horn And stands the turret like a ruined dial, Serving to mark the slow but sure decay Of all things here! the storm has poured its phial Of strength with Time's unconquerable sway. Hark! 'tis the lone owl hooting from the tower Where chimed the lute from Beauty's latticed bower. No more-no more, when day is slow descending, My love may never reach that sweet proud height, Where thy soul, dwelling on the mountain peaks Of its own pure and loftiest nature, breaks Through all the clouds which dim my mortal sight, And kisses heaven: of which, in sooth, it might Be deemed a portion; for each action speaks Of purest thoughts within, as on the cheeks Blushes denote emotion brought to light. My thoughts would fain ascend to that high place Whence thou beholdest earth; but they grow dim At their own boldness, and they leave behind A nameless yearning, as upon the wind Which they outstripped like thoughts in their swift race,. Lingers the sound of songs of Cherubim. |