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she said it, and her speech had not a very deterrent efl'ect upon Captain Cleasby who was not angry, or hurt, or surprised, but simply a little amused.

"Now I call that very unfair. I see how it is; you do look upon me as a natural enemy all the time, and then shelter yourself behind your grandfather. I call that very unfair," said Captain Cleasby.

"It does not make any difference to me," said Christina; "I told you it didn't matter to me."

"Only that you will not come to my house," said Captain Cleasby; and just then they passed from the heath and came out upon the road, back into everyday life, as it were with a carter guiding his team of horses past the White House, and the woman of the lodge standing at the Park gates, and Mr. Warde coming towards them with a book under his arm.

Christina felt with a sudden revulsion of feeling that the eyes of the world were upon her; and that, for perhaps the first time in her life, she was doing something which she would rather not have known, about which people might talk, while Mr. Warde would, she knew, be surprised to meet her with Captain Cleasby.

lie, for his part was quite indifferent to Christina's world, so far as he himself was concerned; but he was considerate for her, and would not allow her to be blamed or wondered at upon his account.

"Then good night," he said: and he turned into his own gates, merely taking off his hat before Mr. Warde came up with them.


Mr. Warde met Christina with an outstretched hand and his usual cordial friendly greeting, and never gave a thought to her late companion ; indeed, he was preoccupied, and thinking of something quite different; and though his expression was as straightforward and candid as ever, there was a shadow of perplexity in it which was not customary with him.

"I have been with your grandfather," he said; "he seems very much out of spirits. If you can spare me a few minutes, I should like to have a little talk with you."

They were still some way from the house, and he turned and began to pace back slowly by her side. It was such a sudden awakening, so rapid and complete a transition from coloured clouds to common grey sky, that Christina felt her heart sink, and had no thought or curiosity about what he

might be going to say. Only it would be pleasant to be free to think, and not attend to any one's conversation.

"Your grandfather is very low," said Mr. Warde again; "I cannot help thinking that he has something on his mind, and it !i.-is occurred to me that it may possibly be something connected with his money matters."

"Very likely," said Christina, despondingly; " we are always in difficulties." It was not a complaint, but a simple statement of a fact which she did not at that moment care to take the trouble to conceal.

"Very well," said Mr. Warde, cheerfully; "I thought it might possibly be the case. It does not matter when people are young, unless they have others dependent on them," said the Rector, who was as far from pitying Christina as she was from making any complaint. "But when a man comes to your grandfather's time of life, it is a different thing; but what I wanted to say to you was this. I have no one dependent on me, except my parishioners, who get a great deal more than is good for them, as a rule ; and as long as I am as I am now, I should like your grandfather to look upon the White House as his. If I married, it would be another thing."

He made his proposal in a perfectly unconcerned matter-of-fact tone; and, to say the truth, Christina, who was not sensitive, but almost as simple and straightforward as Mr. Warde himself, was neither overwhelmed with surprise nor gratitude, but looked on the offer as a natural one enough, which, had it rested with her, she would not have hesitated to accept. But it rested with her grandfather, and not with her; and she said so.

"It is very kind of you, Mr. Warde," she said. "Of course it would be a great help to us, and a very great ad\ antage. If it were me, I should accept and be thankful; but grandpapa is different. He cannot bear to take favours; I suppose he never was accustomed to it. I sometimes think ae would rather starve than ask anyone for a penny. / think it would be much better to take as freely as one would give; but then, you see, it does not concern me, and grandpapa is so very different from me," said Christina, with a sort of regretful wonder.

"Why are you all to suffer because Mr. North is prejudiced V But I think you make a mistake,'1 said the clergyman. "I cannot quite fancy myself begging of anyone, but this is such a rational thing. I don't want the rent, and Mr. North wants the money. I offer it gladly. Why should he not accept?"

"I don't know, I am sure," said Christina; "but I do not believe that he will. People are different, you know."

"What I want you to do is to make the proposition," said the Rector; "put it to him as 1 have put it to you, and then let me know the result. Don't hurry him : his first impulse will be to refuse, which is the reason that I did not go straight to him. Good night, Christina," said Sir. Warde, who considered himself privileged by his age and long acquaintance to address her by her Christian name; and then he shook hands and turned away as they reached the White House, making his way back at his energetic rapid pace to his little lodgings over the baker's at Overton.

Christina walked slowly up the garden, with a curious sense of incongruity. It was not that she was surprised, at Mr. Warde's proposal, or that she was in any way embarrassed by it; it was simply that all those every-day affairs had lost their importance in her eyes for the time, and she seemed all at once to be living two lives; and though the one was pressed upon her from without, the other, which her imagination created, seemed much the more real of the two. She went up to her own room, and stood for a long time at her window, watching the light dying out in the west, as gradually the level rays which lay across the heath faded, and the evening mists rose up from the valley. But yet she was not consciously thinking of it, nor of anything; only she smiled as she looked, and forgot that it Whs past her grandfather's dinnerhour, and that he was impatient of being kept waiting. She was not recalled to the present by the bell, nor by the clock striking in the hall, and it was not until she heard Bernard's voice at her door that she turned, suddenly awakened from her dreams.

"Make haste, Christina," he was saying; "they are waiting; are you not coming?"

•'Ye», yes," said Christina impatiently: and she did make haste, but yet she was late, and her mother sighed, and her grandfather maintained a displeased silence, and ehe would not apologize or feel sorry, but took her work in the evening, and would not lift her eyes from it even to speak to Bernard, who sat at his drawing, wondering at the change.

"Have you given orders about breakfast, Christina? " said Mrs. North, as she wished her good night; ''he must be off by five o'clock, or half-past at the latest, he says."

"He! who?" said Christina, for she had quite forgotten that it was Bernard's last evening; but Bernard had not heard the question.

"What are you thinking about? I wish you would attend when I speak," said her mother; " I am telling you that Bernard must start at five o'clock to-morrow.

"Oh yes," said Christina, and, in spite of her ill-humour and pre-occupation, a reproachful pang shot through her; " yes, I will tell Janet, but I shall be down myself."

"Yes, do, Christina," said Bernard, catching her words; and Christina could not help nodding her assent gaily. If he had been sentimental or exacting, it might have been different; then she would have been forced to take it more gravely, to face the question, and would consequently have been troubled and vexed; but he was so boyish, so happy and light-hearted, so unsuspicious and confident, that she ceased to ask herself upon what his confidence was founded. She was not so very sorry now that he was going away ; but yet they had been happy, and she would please him by being down to see him off. So she thought that evening; and when she came down in the freshness and beauty of the early summer morning, her thoughts were the same, only now the other and alien impressions of the day before were less strong than they had been, and she was more drawn towards her cousin when she began to realize how much she should lose by his departure. All the cares had been lightened by his presence, she could hardly tell why or how. He was not full of advice, or resources, or expedients; he was not even very clever, or talkative, or agreeable; but Christina could give free vent to her moods before him, and he never jarred upon her, but gave her all the mirth and gladness which she ever knew — a gladness which, like that of childhood, was spontaneous and even unreasonable, but which had no pain or excitement intermingled with it.

Bernard was not even sad, still less desponding, on this morning of his departure; on the contrary, he was full of ho;>e, enterprise, and a happy confidence in Christina which could not be disturbed. He knew well enough that he must wait, but for him the waiting had nothing that threatened the failure of realization; and they were both young; and though his mother might not approve now, it would be different when he was older and prospering in his profession; and for the present he had no fears, and was hungry, and quite able to attend to his breakfast.

The sun was dispersing the mist which had Lung over the heath, and was shining upon the old silver coffee-pot and china cups; and the breeze, full of the freshness and fragrance of the dawning day, was blowing in at the window, and they were as carelessly happy as when they had made feasts as little boy and girl under the Park trees, with acorns for cups and saucers, and a dock-leaf for a table-cloth.

"When we are married,"—said Bernard, lie had been talking of his plans and hopes and projects, and came back as was natural to the one idea in which they centred.

Christina started, and put down her cup hastily, and pushed her chair back from the table.

"Yes, when; — but that is a long way off, Bernard. Why should we think about it now Y Perhaps it may never be. We cannot marry upon nothing at all, you know, and how could grandpapa give me anything Y how could I ask it Y Perhaps it wou!d be better if we did not think about it."

"Not think about it!" said Bernard. A sudden flush as of anger or pain came over his face, and he put his arms upon the table and leant over and stared at her. "I have thought about it ever since I can remember," he said, very slowly, with none of his usual ardour or impetuosity.

"Yes, I know," said Christina: and she could not tell why, but sudden tears rose in her eyes. And then there was a silence, and in spirit they both went back to days of summer and winter and early spring, and then to that day when she first knew that he had thought about it, when he had asked and she had not denied him, and now he must ask another question, and would not shrink from it.

"Christina," he said," you remember, of course you remember your promise; but if you wish it, I give it you back again. It is better to say it now if it is to be. If you have changed, say so, and be free if you like."

"I have not changed," said Christina; "there is no change that I know of, only one learns to think that what is distant must be doubtful: " and though the tears were still in her eyes, she smiled as she looked at him. He was pale now, and his mouth was set, and his eyes full of a fierce longing, but he was still a boy, and beautiful in his youth and innocence.

"It is only that it is so far off,'1 said Christina; "I remember, of course, and it is the same as it was then; I have not forgotten — I shall not forget you."

"That is a promise, and / shall not forget," he said; and he got up rather unsteadily from his chair, and laughed in his agitation and relief.

Then Janet came in, and the dog-cart was at the door, and his portmanteau was being carried out. Christina came and stood in the doorway, shading her eyes with her hand from the flood of sunshine, and Bernard had rushed upstairs to wish his grandfather good-bye; she could hear him calling to him in the passage above, and then he came down the stairs, and she held out both her hands to him.

"Good-bye, Bernard," she said, smiling.

"Good-bye," he said, and kissed her, though Janet was standing close by; but then his going away was a great event, and three months was a long time, and they were cousins.

The next minute he had slammed the gate behind him, and was driving fast across the heath. Christina watched him until he was out of sight, and then went back into the house. It seemed to her now that she must be true to him, that there was no way of escape even if she had wished it, and she was not sure that she did wish it. She would be at peace, and at rest, and free from all cares; they might be happy even now. She had met Captain Cleasby, she had walked and talked with him, but what did it amount to? They were no longer complete strangers, but that was all. She had met him frankly and simply, and had not asked herself why those two meetings stood out distinct and full of light against the dark background of her life: but in that casual meeting with Mr. Warde, in that sudden revulsion of feeling which she had had as she left the moor and entered upon the public road j even in Captain Cleasby's manner, carelessly courteous as it was, when he turned into his own gates, a sort of revelation had been made to her. She would no longer do anything which all the world might not know. Her grandfather might be prejudiced, and bitter, and unjust; but if he did not choose to see this man — if others knew, as they no doubt did know, that Captain Cleasby was not welcome at the White House, then it was not for her to keep up any intercourse with him; and then, besides, she began to have a vague feeling of danger, of something which might cause a conflict in her spirit and a discord in her life, if she continued to turn her eyes towards the Park.

She might be wilful and rebellious and reckless at times, but a better spirit had come to her now. Bernard was so happy

and confident, and she was touched, and take a fancy to me and mine, and I naturwould be true to her words. So she thought ally loved him dearly. He used to come as she sat over her work that day, and j to my house, not the abode of wealth or missed his resounding step along the pas- Inxury, almost every day, and often more gage, and his boyish merriment, and his than once a-day. He talked with my little winning smile. children, and told them odd fairy tales;

and I now see him (this was on his second visit) one day in Walnut Street walking

slowly along with my little girl by the

From Blackwood's Magazine. HADD IMMEMOR. —THACKEUAY IN

Ami,Kir \,

[the following American tribute to the memory of Thackeray was written loug ago — its date being M»y, 1864, the darkest hour of the

hand — the tall, grey-haired, spectacled man with an effort accommodating himself to the toddling child by his side; and then he would bring her home: and one day when we were to have a great diuner at the club given to him and my wife was ill, and my household disarranged, and the

Civil War. The sad associations of those days bell rang and j eaid to hi -., j must of sorrow and other circumstances prevented it and Cary6e the boi,ed muMon for tfae c

&Sft£3^i2ttl£f£ dren-and take for erantedu d°not care

veneration for the great novelist have gone on

in growth. This Memorial is now published with the full consent of the author.*]

Mr. Thackeray (who that has heard him, with sweetness of voice unequalled, speak of Mr. Joseph Addison, and Mr. Congreve, and Mr. Fielding, and Mr. Atterbury; who that has read "Henry Es

to come;" and he got up, and, with a cheery voice, said, " I love boiled mutton and children too, and I will dine with them," and we did; and he was happy, and the children were happy, and our appetite for the club dinner was damaged. Such was Thackeray in my home.

I met him once at the house of a friend, and there happened to be an odd colloca

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fault with me for so describing him ?) came to Philadelphia on his first visit to America in the month of January 1853. My impression is that he brought very few letters of personal introduction, and was

man of brilliant talent, of mature age, and high education, measured at least by our American standard, who was marked by two peculiarities — his remarkable physical resemblance to Thackeray, and the

rather careless of what may be called , fact tuatj although upwards of fifty years "social success," though anxious about of age, born and bred in Kentucky, he had

the work he had in hand — his course of lectures on the English Humorists — and, as be used to say, " the dollars he wished to make, not for himself, but for his little

never before crossed the Alleghanies, and never until that very day seen a ship or any square-rigged vessel. They—the bright oackwoodsman, who had never

girls at home.'^ With or without letters, | looked upon the ocean, and the veteran

Londoner, who had made a voyage from

he soon made friends, on the hearts of whom the news of his death has struck a sharp pang. As one of them, I venture to jot down a few memories of him who is

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India before the days of steam, and had seen a fat man in white clothes and a big straw hat at St. Helena called "Buonaparte '" — were a charming contrast. The year 1803 carried both to their graves — one in Kensal Green and the other cm the

American microcosm — those who run :banks of the Ohio, after celebrities, and those, resolute not to it was a bright moonlight night on which be pleased, who run, as it were, against we (Thackeray and I) walked home from them. All were won or conquered by his that dinner; and I remember well the simple naturalness; and, as I have said,. waik and the place, for I seem to localize the lectures were a great success. I aii my associations with him, and 1 asked

My personal relations to him happened him what, perhaps, he might have thought to become very intimate. He seemed to tae absurd question, " What do you honestly think of my country 7 or rather, what

• THe author of the Memorial Is Mr. Wllll.m B. hat'mo8t 8truck you jn America? Tell

in America, firat inggeated to Mr. Beed its publics- elated if it be not." And then his answer, tton in thii country. as he stopped (we were walking along

Pcnn Square), and, turning round to me, said: "You know what a virtue-proud people we English are. We think we nave got it all to ourselves. Now thai which most impresses me here is, that 1 find homes as pure as ours, firesides like ours, domestic virtues as gentle; the English language, though the accent be a little different, with its home-like melody; and the Common Prayer Book in your families. I am more struck by pleasant resemblances than by anything else." And so I sincerely believe he was.

There was a great deal of dining out while "the great satirist," as we used to address htm, was here; but although always genial, I do not think, according to my recollection, he was a brilliant conversationist. Those who expected much were often disappointed. It was in close private intercourse, he was delightful. Once —it was in New York — he gave a dinner, at which I was a guest, to what are called "literary men." — authors, and lawyers, and actors (two very accomplished ones, and most estimable gentlemen— one still living), and editors, and magazine men. Then he made what seemed to be an effort. He talked for the table. He saug Borne odd post-prandial gongs; one in a strange sort of " recitative " about Doctor Martin Luther. But, as I have paid, it was an effort, and I liked him better at home and alone. It wag on this occasion, or rather on our return journey to Philadelphia, that, on board the steamboat (here again am I localizing), he spoke to me of domestic sorrows and anxieties too sacred to be recorded here. And yet it was this man whom vulgarminded people called heartless! As he thus talked to me, I thought of lines of tenderness, often quoted, which no one but he could have written : —

"Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!

I mind me of a time that's gone,
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting,

In this same place, but not alone.
A fnir young form was nestled near me,

A dear, dear fice looked fondly up.
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me, —

There's no one now to share my cup."

It is no part of this little Memorial to refer to what may be called his public relations and his success us a lecturer. I merely record my recollection of the peculiar voice and cadence; the exquisite manner of reading poetry; the elocution, matchless in its simplicity; his tranquil attitude — the only movement of his hands being when he wiped his glasses as he be

gan and turned over the leaves of hia manuscript; his gentle intonations. There was sweet music in his way of repeating the most hackneyed lines, which freshened them anew. I seem still to hear him say,—

"And nightly to the listening earth
ats the story of her birth."

Or, in his lecture on Pope,—

"Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos! is restored;
Light dies before thy unoreating word.
Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall,
And universal darkness buries all!"

But to resume my personal recollections. He was too sincere a man to talk for effect, or to pay compliments; and on his first visit to America, he seemed so happy, and so much pleased with all ho met, that I fancied he might be tempted to come and for a time live amongst us. The British Consulate in Philadelphia became vacant, the incumbent, Mr. William Peter, dying suddenly; and it seems from the following note, written at Washington, that I urged him to take the place if he could get it. I give the note exactly as it was written, venturing even to retain the names of those whom he kindly remembered; and Philadelphians ' of the old school will smile at the misspelling of the name of the founder of the Wistar parties of our ancient days.

"Me. Andkbson's Music Store,
Penns Avinue (1853),


"Mr Dear Reed, — (I withdraw the Mr aa wasteful and ridiculous excess*, and gilding of refined gold), and thank you for the fimous autograph and the kind letter enclosing it, and the jood wishes you form for me. There are halfa-dozen houses I already know in Philadelphia where I could find very pleasant friends and company; and that good old library would give me plenty of acquaintances more. But, home among my parents there, and some few friends [ have made in the lost twenty-five years, and a tolerably fair prospect of an honest livelihood on the familiar London flagstones, and the library at the Athenteum.and the ride in the Park, and the pleasant society afterwards; and a trip to Paris low and again, and to Switzerland and Italy in ;he summer, — these are little temptations which make me not discontented with my lot, about which I grumble only for pastime, and because t is an Englishman's privilege. Own now that all these recreations here enumerated have a jleasant Bound. I hope I shall live to enjoy hem yet a little while before I go to ' nox et domus fxilis Pliitonia,' whither poor, kind, old Peter has vanished. So that Saturday I was to lave dined with him, and Mrs. Peter wrote, saying he WM ill with influenza: he was in bed

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