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ABOUT three months before the commencement of our memoir, Charles had resolved on returning to England, partly because his father's desire to see them both had been very urgently repeated of late, but principally because his own life was sinking into the socket; and though he scarcely cared about the approaching death which, in former years, had been so terrible a theme for meditation-he was anxious that his Lily should be at home among the few friends towards whom her young heart turned in her now frequent distresses.

They arrived at Arlton to find great change on every handbut to show still greater change in themselves. The frail girl, who had gone away beneath the doubtful shelter of a sickly, gloomy parent, returned full of health, an anxious, prudent, careful, faithful, loving nurse, to whom the once robust man looked up for help and comfort at every turn.

The aged father was at first unspeakably afflicted to behold the wreck which men called his only son. But when in a few days he found that the old obstinacy of pride—that obstinacy which had spurned his counsel, and even ridden down his love into the dust-was undergoing some change, he began to take comfort, and even to rejoice, that so severe a visitation should have befallen one whom he had vainly tried to save, but who appeared now to be altogether in the hands of Him who had ever yet, in his experience, made chastise

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ment a means of peace. A strange longing took possession of Charles's mind to revisit, and even to inhabit the old house at Mylden-and the sweet nurse, prophesying good things, secretly rejoiced that she was going to the scene of her mother's earthly happiness (alas! she knew not, even now, how small, how brief, that happy lot had been), and she felt that only a blessed charm could linger round a place where a mother so saintly and so loving as she heard even the bereaved husband describe, had lived and meekly died.

Lily had one brief, casual interview with Henry, but a sense of propriety restrained on both sides, while beyond the clear, harsh mandate of her father, there was the far more effectual and coercive reason of his all-absorbing sorrow, to check the impulse of her affectionate memory of Henry Wilton-and overhanging every thought, every stolen, pensive hour, there was the consciousness that she was unmeet for one so heavenly in his aspirations, and in the tenor of his daily life. She could hardly bear the cruel bar between them-but she saw it, and she knew its strength. His God was not hers. Her faith had been marred, and the holier sentiments of religion had been rudely stifled for a time; and though, like trodden violets, they rose again, sweeter, lovelier, they needed spring showers from on high, before she could gather a wreath for her beloved and dearly loving friend.

There was no symptom of danger in Mr. Barton's case. Indeed, he was in sound, general health, but greatly enfeebled, and even partly lame through a slight paralytic stroke; and so they parted in the declining summer days, with no fear of its being their final separation. Mr. Barton, however, naturally thought that such might be the case; and he earnestly enjoined on both Charles and Lilian, that, if possible, they should meet again on earth; if Charles was worse, a messenger was to ride off instantly, and if alive, Mr. Barton said over and over again, he would hasten at once to embrace his son, even if the effort should prove his own death too. Charles well knew the object of this intense anxiety to be with him when his hour should come, and though his heart relented, and was sorely moved, his pride kept silence, and he knew, besides, that unless he relinquished the now indispensable stimulant,

his father would have no ground for real comfort, or even hope; and he could not, would not, dare not, give up the very elixir of his waning life, poisonous though he now well knew it to be.

There was all the charm of novelty, and all the deeper fascination of tenderest associations in this visit of Lily to the home of her birth. To Charles, also, there was some singular attraction. He could not speed fast enough on wings of steam, and he knew no rest for a moment, till he stood once again in the unaltered chamber where the dear daughter and the dear stricken mother had nestled to each other's hearts so holily on that night of shame and mortal sin.

Once the faithful Lily had ventured to inquire from her father, whether he did not think that so much brandy did him harm-for she had never tasted it-so early insensed had she been with the belief that it was rank poison; but the mingled fury and heart-breaking melancholy of that reproaching glance, abashed and silenced her feeble remonstrance. Could she but wean him! Could she but so ravish him with the fulness of her ardent love! Could she, by sleepless watching, beguile the weary waking hours of the pitiable sufferer!-oh, could she do anything really to lessen the demon's hold upon him,-she would cheerfully do it; but she knew the powerlessness of human speech. That one black look, revealing, as it did, the lineaments of the same demon which flashed forth upon the astounded wife in years gone by-told her that words, all words, were but as oil upon the flame. She then knew her duty; her sphere was limited, because her power was signally so. With all the lighter heart, then, did she devote herself to the laborious task of soothing every passing pang of mind or body, and the bright days and lengthening nights found her ever sprightly, full of loving devices for the relief and amusement of her dying father. Had she known a charm of Heaven's own prescription, she would have plied that too; but her ear was untaught, unmusical for the loftier melodies of the truth in love; and her heart, in its very redundance of animal spirits and purest human affection, seemed almost independent of such aid as religion proposes to grant to the weary and heavy laden

amongst the children of men. Notwithstanding all her liveliness, there was great anguish in her heart, for in spite of all her care, and skill, and love, not only was death hastening on, but the cloud of a lifetime seemed to deepen round the approaching doom. Was it a cloud gathering lightnings in its bosom, which hereafter would tear it asunder? We

shall see.

CHAPTER IL

66 AIRS FROM HEAVEN.

THE Sweet autumnal night had fallen, and the big moon with more than summer glory shone down upon the dusky woods, and kissed her trembling image on the leaping brook. The hum of labour and of traffic was dying slowly on the ear, and the distant bark of house-dog, borne sadly on the evening air, was answered by the sullen guns proclaiming that the hour of rest and of temptation was near at hand. The suffering father gazed from within upon the peaceful landscape till his spirit seemed to catch the softened moonlight tint— and his pains were forgotten or lulled by the fascination of the gentle hour. The slight fever which generally marked the abatement of his graver ailments, made him long to taste the cooling breeze. Lilian, who was sitting hand in hand with her father, soon acquiesced in his desire for a stroll in the dry paths of the little park. The air was mild, and the night was too tempting to resist; and so with filial, almost with motherly care, she muffled up the invalid; and then with wifely prudence muffled up herself. For some time they paced the glittering path in silence, she in partial sorrow, for on that day she had perceived a change in her father's symptoms, and thought there was some new grief pressing on his mind. She was too dutiful and delicate to press the anxious question that had so often risen to her lips that day, and mentally resolved that if she found her father sinking down into his old lassitude and melancholy-she would not be smitten; she would rally him with the playfulness of love;

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