Mr Mordaunt made no reply. "Do not tell me she is dead, sir; pray do not; say she lives! Dead! What could death have to do with youth and beauty like hers?" and starting from his seat, John paced hurriedly up and down like one distracted. "Dead!" he continued, "who said she was dead? Not you, Mr Mordaunt; no, my fears misgave me, you merely said you had lost your daughter; well, a week's-nay, a day's absence of such a daughter is a loss; she has left her home awhile-she has gone to visit some friend or relation; but she will return, will she not, sir?" and John, looked in the father's face, as if life or death hung on the answer he should receive.

"I would fain encourage your hopes, my boy, but".

"No more, I see it all, then she is really dead!" said the young man abruptly, interrupting Mr Mordaunt, "dead! and I was not by to close her eyes and receive her last farewell! Oh God-oh God, why did I ever leave her?"

"Be calm, John, be calm, I entreat yon."

"And so Mary-my Mary, is dead! 'Tis strange, the old live, the young pass away. Dead-dead! How my brain throbs! Air-more airthe heat of this room is stifling," and sinking into his seat, Trevanion placed his hand on his forehead, gasping at the same time as if he were on the verge of suffocation.

"I did not foresee this," said Mr Mordaunt to himself. "I fear I have been over-hasty-the shock has been too great for him-however, I acted for the best-besides, who would have supposed after so long an absence he would have taken it so much to heart?" and approaching Trevanion, he gently seized his hand,

and again implored him to be comforted.

For a few minutes the young man continued in a state of utter stupefaction. At length rousing himself, he exclaimed, “I am the veriest wretch on earth! Oh, Mr Mordaunt! if you did but know how often in sickness and in sorrow, in storm and tempest, and under the burning sun of the tropics, I have derived health and hope, and the power of endurance, from the thought of once again secing Mary-if you did but know this, sir, and feel but the one-half of what I now feel, you would not ask me to be comforted. And how did she die?" he exclaimed, turning on the old gentleman with startling fierce

ness.

"Another time, John, you shall know all; but not now-leave me nay, not a word, I must be obeyed. Remember I am Mary's father.'

"And as such, sir, your word is law with me," said Trevanion, sullenly rising to take leave.

"Then go home to your father, John. Forget his former harshness, and act towards him as a son should ever act towards a parent. Believe me, he stands in need of all your affection, for-But no, no," muttered the old gentleman, turning away from his young friend, "I cannot tell what has happened at the Hall. I have not the heart to add to his grief; I

fear I have said too much already.' And Mr Mordaunt advanced to the window near which John was standing with his eye riveted to the ground ; led him gently from the room, and bade him adieu for the night.

On quitting the cottage, Trevanion bent his way slowly and thoughtfully towards his father's hall, pausing often on his road, and deviating from it into one of those by-lanes with which the neighbourhood abounds, like one unconscious of his movements; and so he was to a certain extent, for the shock of Mary's death had stunned his faculties; and he kept constantly repeating to himself, "dead! dead!"' just as if his mind were unable to grasp the full meaning of the word.

In this bewildered state-for as yet it was rather bewilderment than grief with him, John reached the park gates, the sight of which roused him into something like animation. He felt that he was at home at last; the rooks

that cawed above his head; the giant trees that flung their shadow across his path; the distant bark of a foxhound; and the loud laugh of some labourers in the adjacent hay-fields; all these familiar sights and sounds had the effect of rousing him from his stupor, by carrying him back to the days of his boyhood-happy days,

when the heart is without a sear, and the thought without a cloud! But these feelings were but momentary; darkness again fell on his mind; for, as he hurried across the lawn, the first object on which his eye fell, was the fir grove through which he had last wandered, on an evening like the present, with Mary!

'Tis an old saying, that misfortunes seldom come singly, and John Trevanion was doomed to verify this adage. The hall that he had left, ringing with the laughter of its jovial inmates, and alive with the bustle of its numerous domestics, was now forlorn and apparently deserted. He rung a loud peal at the hall door, but for some minutes no notice was taken of his summons. Surprised, but not alarmed-for after the shock he had received, nothing could alarm him, or call forth any deep expression of emotion-John rung and rung again, each time more violently than before, till at length his father's favourite groom appeared, and having opened the door, stood staring at him as though he were a visitor more unexpected than wel

come.

"What, Thomas, have you forgotten me already?" exclaimed Trevanion, holding out his hand to the veteran domestic.

66

Hey day, Master John! No, sure -and yet it is! Ah, sir, you have returned at a sad moment. Your poor father" and the old man paused. On which Trevanion said,

"What of my father? I trust no ill has befallen him."

"To him, to all of us, Master John. The Hall is no longer what it used to be when you knew it."

Speak out, old man, and do not trifle with my impatience. I am not what I was. So tell me at once, without more delay, is my father living."

"He is, but ill very ill, worn down with grief for the loss of your

brother."

"Hah! Is poor Edward gone?" "Yes-he was killed by a fall from his horse. I always told him the bay mare would be the death of him, that's some comfort. Ah! Master John, it's a sad thing to see a young man go out in the morning fresh as a four-year

old, and be brought back in a few hours as stiff as a hack in a knacker's yard. He was buried only two days since, and your poor father takes his loss sadly to heart. He eats a mere nothing to signify, which is a sure sign he's grieving; for you may remember he had an uncommon appetite for his time of life."

"Enough enough," exclaimed Trevanion, hastily; "show me to my father."

"Assuredly, Master John; but I think you had better wait here till I go in and give him notice of your coming. His head wanders a little at times, for you know he doated on your brother; and to lose him just as the shooting season was coming on, and he such a capital shot! Ah, Master John, I shall never be able to abide the sight of a partridge again, fond as I used to be of 'em."

Having thus disburdened himself of some portion of his tribulation, Thomas hurried forward into the parlour. John followed close at his heels, but halted outside the door while the servant went in to announce his arrival.

Hearing the door open, the Baronet, who was dozing in his arm-chair, turned round with a peevish exclamation of surprise, on which the old man abruptly addressed him with, "Here's your son come back to see you, sir." "Son! What son?"

"Master John, sir, come back from foreign parts."

"John-John! Oh, true, I had forgotten. Bid him come in."

In an instant John rushed forward, and flung himself into his father's arms, who returned his greeting with more affection than he had ever before evinced towards him.

"Welcome, my dear boy-welcome," said Sir Hugh, pointing to a seat beside him. "You are my only hope, now that poor Ned

"

"I have heard all; so pray, sir, don't distress yourself by the recital," replied John, endeavouring for his father's sake to appear composed.

"You're right, my boy; what can't be cured must be endured, as the saying is. But, oh, John, such a son as he was! So dutiful, so clever—there wasn't a better sportsman in all Devonshire ! And then when we returned home in the evening, this room used to ring again with his laughter; you might have heard him half-way down to the village. But the old hall is silent now. As for me, I will never mount horse more. Ah! 'tis a sore trial, John, but we must bear it, boy. There is nothing like bravely bearing up against it; so, take example by me, and pluck up courage." And so saying, the poor afflicted father lifted up his voice and wept. "And why didn't you write to us, John?" he continued, when his burst of grief had subsided. "Your brother Ned used to be often asking after you of the Mordaunts."

"I had no means of communicating with you, sir, so strange have been my reverses since we last met."

"No doubt, every thing is strange now. The old hall is strange, and even my own voice sounds strange in my ears. Well, thank God! I have one son left. But, John, John, you are not Edward." And the Baronet's eyes fell upon the vacant chair which the deceased used to occupy.

The old groom, who was a privileged domestic, and now that his master was incapacitated, took upon himself the entire duties of the household, here entered, unbidden, with a jug of claret, in order that John might have as social a welcome as was possible, under the circumstances.

Sir Hugh smiled, in faint approval of Thomas's forethought, and filling a goblet for himself and another for his son, he drank what he called, the "welcome home." The generous beverage, which had never passed his lips since Edward's death, for a time revived his spirits, and he looked himself again. "Well, my boy," he exclaimed, "I am glad to have thee with me again; and where have you been, and what have you been doing? Let me hear all, I can listen to you now."

Glad of an opportunity to divert his father's and his own thoughts, Trevanion proceeded to recount his adventures from the period when he was

shipwrecked at Santo Jago, to that when he escaped from the pirates off the coast of Porto Bello. He had, he said, been tossed about in an open boat for the best part of a night and a day, when, just as he had abandoned all hope of preservation, he was picked up by a small fishing-vessel, the crew of which carried him, at his own request, before the governor of the city, to whom he communicated the intentions of the pirates, how, having captured the galleon, they were only waiting the arrival of Morgan's squadron to commence an attack on Porto Bello. Alarmed at this intelligence, the governor made instant preparations for defence, but in vain; for in a few days the freebooters appeared before the city, captured it, and after committing a thousand excesses, would have set it on fire, had not the inhabitants prevailed on them to retire by the payment of a heavy ransom. Trevanion, who took an active part in the defence of Porto Bello, was severely wounded early in the assault, but contrived to escape the recognition of Captain Davis and his crew, by lying concealed in the house of a merchant to whom his skill and bravery had recommended him. Here he remained for months, hovering between life and death; but at length youth and a good constitution prevailed, and taking advantage of the first favourable chance, he set sail for the Old World, and, after a stormy and protracted voyage, arrived at Cadiz, whence he found his way to England.

When the Baronet heard John talk about the pirates, his curiosity was visibly excited; but it soon flagged, and he sank again into a listless apathy. Suddenly, however, making an effort to rouse himself, and pushing the jug towards his son, he said, "Ned, my boy, help yourself; we shall have rare sport to-morrow, for they tell meGod help me! my wits are gone a woolgathering, I think."

In vain Trevanion tried to rally his father's spirits by forcing himself to appear cheerful. The Baronet's energics were, for the time, completely prostrated, and he sank into a dull heavy slumber; seeing which, and aware that his presence could be of no more avail, he quitted the room and retired to his own chamber.

It is singular how deep grief brings out the latent points of character, and

imparts for the time a new moral aspect to the sufferer. I have seen some men, who have ever betrayed the quickest sensibilities, submit to the severest visitation with a calmness worthy of a stoic; and others, whom I should have pronounced callous as a rock, give way at once, unable to offer the slightest resistance to the assaults of the chastener. Such was the contrast that the elder and younger Trevanion now presented to each other. The one rough, despotic, and apparently insensate, was wholly subdued; while the other, who was just the reverse, sternly wrestled with his grief. But the high moral fortitude which had sustained John during this trying interview with his father, and had never deserted him, even in his severest calamities, now wholly gave way when, the necessity for self-control withdrawn, he found himself in the solitude of "the old, familiar" hall. But it was the thought of Mary that thus unmanned him; it was for her his tears flowed. Neither his father nor his brother had ever done aught to call forth his affections: their natures were wholly opposed to his; but Mary was one with himself. Together they had pursued the same studies-partaken of the same pleasures-loved the same scenes. And she was gone! This was the one overpowering grief that," like Aaron's serpent, swallowed all the rest." Long his tears continued to flow; but the paroxysm having at length exhausted itself, he rose from his seat, and approached the window. The night was still as the sleep of the dead; the sky was studded with stars; and the moon, nearly at the full,

touched, with chaste and solemn radiance, the leafy groves and emerald lawns of Trevanion park.

As John continued gazing on the luxuriant landscape that lay stretched far and wide beneath him, his eye fell upon objects dear-how dear!_from their association with Mary Mordaunt. Here was the spreading oak on whose bark he had carved, like Paris, the name of his Ænone; there the little grassy mound, where she had halted to rest herself after an evening stroll through the park. Still they flourished; but she who had consecrated them in John's eyes-she had passed away! Never more should he behold her; the witch's prediction was, in part, fulfilled; and henceforth all was barren in nature and his own heart.

Thus meditating, with his glance rivetted on the oak, which stood alone in the centre of the lawn, the mourner's attention was suddenly diverted by the sight of a female figure slowly gliding through the fir-grove which belted a portion of the park. Was it fancy? did his eyes deceive him? or did he, indeed, see the form of Mary? No; it could not be. The form must be that of some belated villager returning to South Zeal; for it was but early yet, and the bustle of the hayfield, and the subsequent merry-making of the labourers, kept many from their homes beyond the usual hour. Before, however, Trevanion could come to any definite conclusion on the subject, the figure-if it were not a mere phantom of the imagination-had disappeared; and fancying that the wild excitement of his spirits had deceived him, he turned from the window, and threw himself on his couch.

For the first two or three days after his son's return, the poor Baronet, who had no resources of any sort to fly to by way of refuge from grief, kept him constantly by his side, and was so pleased with his unmurmuring submission to his frequent caprices, that John bid fair in time to supply the vacuum which the death of Edward had left in his affections. So close, in fact, was his attendance on his father, that it was only when the latter took his wonted nap after dinner, that the young man was enabled

to steal away on a solitary stroll, or to the cottage of Mr Mordaunt, from whom he gleaned by degrees all the particulars of Mary's death. Her end was a sad one; yet, though not more than two months had elapsed since the catastrophe, her father seemed not a little to John's astonishment to have completely recovered the shock, though his pride was evidently gratified by the way in which Trevanion took it to heart, and the deep-rooted sincerity of his attachment.

A whole week had now clapsed since John's return, and the Baronet, in whose affections he made rapid advances, became gradually more reconciled to his lot. The society of the clergyman of South Zeal greatly contributed to bring about this desirable result; for whenever he saw his patron disposed to a relapse, he was always ready to divert his thoughts by telling the village gossip, or calling upon John for a recital of his adventures with the pirates, which, now that Sir Hugh was able to lend a more attentive ear to them, raised his adventurous boy full a hundred per cent in his esteem and admiration.

John was returning home late one evening from the village, having left the priest to attend his father during his absence, when, attracted by the serene beauty of the hour, he halted, and seated himself on the green mound to which I have before alluded. Not a sound was to be heard about him, except the creaking of a hay-cart along the road; the drowsy hum of the cockchafer, or the caw-caw of the rooks, who, having finished their last meal, were just bidding each other a hoarse good-night. While John sat watching the deer bounding noiselessly past him, his thoughts the while travelling back to the past, he saw-or imagined he saw - the same form which he had beheld but a few nights before, gliding through the same sad fir-grove. Could he be mistaken a second time? Impossible. It wasit must be Mary Mordaunt! In those days the belief in spirits was universal, and more especially was it held, that those who had come to an untimely end, and had not been interred in consecrated ground, were doomed to walk the earth. Trevanion was not superior to the superstitions of his age, and while he stood with his eyes rivetted on the form which was fast blending with the shades of evening, his whole frame trembled with agitation. At length, manning himself with an effort, he made an abrupt dart in the direction where he had beheld it. But it had vanished, on which hurrying through the grove, and shouting aloud in the vain hope of receiving some reply, he flew with the speed of one frenzied to the village, and did not once halt till he found himself at Mr Mordaunt's cottage.

"I have seen her!" he exclaimed,

to the old gentleman, who was seated reading by the window. "Seen her! Seen whom? "Mary!

"Impossible."

"Say not so, sir; as I live, I saw her. Once I might be deceived, but not twice." While he spoke, Mr Mordaunt's agitation became nearly as great as his own. "Can this be possible?" he said in an under-tone, "but no, it cannot be;" then addressing himself to John, he added, "you are mistaken, young man."

"'Tis no mistake, sir," replied Trevanion; "I repeat, these eyes have seen the dead. The look-the form-nay, the very step was hers! You darkly hinted to me your suspicion that in despair, or from some other cause, she had become what I dare not name; and the consciousness of this haunts her even beyond the grave. 'Twas to me she came, and I

and I alone-am summoned to procure rest for her troubled spirit. How -how-shall I act? Hah," he added abruptly, after a minute's reflection, "the witch-the witch-I will to the wood this very night. 'Tis said she has power over the phantoms of another world; from her then I shall learn what course to pursue. Speak not, sir; I am resolved, and will seek her this very hour."

"Madman!" rejoined Mr Mordaunt, stationing himself before the door, " you rush on your destruction. The wise woman is no longer what she was, when you last heard talk of her. None now cross her threshold, but at the peril of both body and soul. The very law itself fears to exercise control over her. Beware, John, beware, lest she curse you!"

"I care not," exclaimed Trevanion, impetuously, "come weal-come wo

I will see her. Let her curse me ; I can but wither under her curses; and oh, Mr Mordaunt, I feel I am hourly withering without them."

"This is the veriest frenzy, young man. Think of your father; and for his sake".

"I will think of nothing but that Mary".

"Yet hear me out, John, and take heed to what I say. If you persist in your headstrong purpose, not only will you peril your own life, and thereby your father's last chance of happiness, but you will fail also in your ob