By this time the evening was somewhat advanced; but there was still enough of daylight remaining to make him feel his bed-chamber an unnatural place for being in. He sat down and wept like a child by the open window, gazing inertly now and then through his tears upon the beautiful scenery, which had heretofore ever appeared in unison with a serene and happy spirit. With how different eyes did he now contemplate every well-known feature of the smiling landscape! How dull, dead, oppressive, was the calm of sunsethow melancholy the slow and inaudible waving of the big green boughs-how intolerable the wide steady splendour of the lake and western sky!

I hope there is no one, who, from the strength and sturdiness of his manhood, can cast back an unmoved eye upon the softness, the delicacy, the open sensitiveness of a young and virgin heartwho can think without regret of those happy days, when the moral heaven was so uniformly clear, that the least passing vapour was sufficient to invest it with the terrors of gloom-of the pure open bosom that could be shaken to the centre by one

grave glance from the eye of affection—of the blessed tears that sprung unbidden, that flowed unscalding, more sweet than bitter-the kindly pang that thrilled and left no scar-the humble gentle sorrow, that was not Penitence-only because it needed not Sin to go before it.

Reginald did not creep into his bed until the long weary twilight had given place to a beautiful star-light night. By that time his spirits had been effectually exhausted, so that slumber soon took possession of him.

But he had not slept long ere he was awakened, suddenly, but gently, by a soft trembling kiss on his forehead; he opened his eyes, and saw Mr Dalton standing near his bed-side in his dressinggown. The star-light, that shewed the outline of the figure, came from behind, so that the boy could not see his father's face, and he lay quite quiet on his pillow.

In a little while Mr Dalton turned away, but ere he did so, the boy heard distinctly, amidst the midnight silence, a whisper of God bless my child! -Reginald felt that his father had not been able

to sleep without blessing him-he felt the reconciling influence fall upon his spirit like a dew from heaven, and he sunk again lightly and softly into his repose.

CHAPTER III.

WHEN Reginald entered the breakfast-parlour next morning, he was received by his father just as if nothing particular had occurred the evening before. The Vicar was not merely as kind, but as cheerful as usual; and the boy, ere the morning was over, had been sitting by his side, not only reading in the Lancastrian folio, but asking him an hundred questions about the old castles and churches engraved for its decoration.

I need scarcely say, however, that Reginald abstained from Grypherwast-hall; although the reader can be at no loss to believe, that had he followed his own inclinations, he would have been more inquisitive concerning that print than any other in the volume.

But if the boy did not say anything as to that tacitly forbidden matter, we may be sure he did

not think the less of it. In truth, from that day forwards he dreamt of it by night, and wove out of it by day the materials of many an endless dream. Living, as he had done, in a world of inaction, and accustomed to draw his subjects of thought from anything rather than the witnessed workings of actual nature, it was no wonder that his fancy should even at this early period have addicted itself to the latter tempting species of amusement. In point of fact, Reginald was seldom at a loss how to occupy himself, provided he had but a tree to sit down beneath. His eye continued open to the scene before him, but by degrees ceased to convey any impression of external images to the mind within. That flew far away on luxurious wings. The last romance or poem he had read, furnished Imagination with all she required-and now, the habit of reverie having been thus formed, it was an easy matter for the youth to dream new dreams, and revel amidst new romances, of which his idle self was the centre and the hero.

Of what texture these were, the sagacious reader will scarcely require any explanation. Where