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curls over, and falls farther inland, just | yet painful. All the generous thoughts

as might a wave. Consequently, in a heavy gale, partial stillness of air is found at the cliff-edge.

that have been pared down and disfigured
into mean acts, shake off their disguise,
reassume their original dignity, and mas-
ter us. All the unrealities, the affecta-
tions, which have bound us about, break
away, and we stand forth fresh and natural
and true. All the selfishness, the contrac-
tion of interest to one miserable point,
discovers its unworthiness, and the heart
swells with a charity that has no bounds.
I have seen those who have taken nov-
els out on the downs to read, sit hour by
hour looking seaward, with the novel un-
reality, the infinite truth waking up in
their minds a thousand thoughts and emo-
tions, drawing them out, withering the
base, and bracing the true. It showed
them in their own selves all the elements
of the noblest romance; it revealed to
them the true hero or heroine, in them-
selves, in the ideal, towards which they
should ever strive, and in the pursuit of
which work out the grandest of romances,
which is not a romance, but a great re-

Josephine wore a dark-blue dress, and over her head was a handkerchief, pinned beneath her chin. Bessie lay silent in her lap, with her head on Josephine's bosom, and her thin-drawn face looking seaward. Josephine also was silent; she also was looking seaward. Her face was greatly changed since we first saw her on the lightship. Then she was girlish, with mischief and defiance in her splendid eyes, and life glowing in her veins, show-read on the lap. The sea was the great ing through her olive skin. Then, there was promise in her of a handsome woman, full of spirit and self-will; of a clever woman, who could keep a circle of men about her, charmed, yet wincing, at her wit and humor. But the Josephine who sat on the bench of the Magpie was not the same. The promise was unfulfilled. The girlishness was gone. The self-confidence had made way for timidity; the defiance in her great dark eyes was exchanged for appeal. There was no mis-ality. chief more lurking anywhere, in the eyes, in the dimples of the cheek, in the curve of the lips; but there was an amount of nobleness, and, mixed with gentleness, great resolution, marked in all the features. It was like the nature of that west wind that they inhaled strong yet tender, direct yet infinitely soft, soothing, healing, loving, strengthening, and pure.

Josephine had gone through a long ordeal, to which she had subjected herself, and from which there seemed no issue. Spiritually, morally, it had done her good; but it had not advanced her towards that end which she sought-at least so it seemed to her. She was no nearer to Richard Cable than she had been. If he conferred on her a boon, it was in such a manner as to rob it of all the grace of a gift and of all the hope it might carry.

What a fascination there is in looking at the sea! Even the most vulgar soul is affected by it. On the sea-border we are on the frontier of the infinite. The sight of the ocean is like the sound of music calling forth the soul from the thoughts of to-day, from its cage-life to freedom, and an unutterable yearning after what is not the perfect. At the sight of the sea, all the aspirations long down-trodden, long forgotten, lift up their hands again, and stretch out of the dust of sordid life. All the sorrows of the past, scarred over, break out and bleed again, the blood running down drop by drop, warm, soothing,

So Josephine sat looking seaward, and thinking without knowing that she thought, and on her lap lay little Bessie thinking, as her eyes looked seaward, and not knowing that she was thinking. In Goethe's ballad the Erl-king calls to the child, uttering promises; and the father who bears the child does not hear the voice, and shudders at the thought that his child may be lured away. The sea-the infinite sea, called to the child and to her who held the child with a voice that both heard a voice full of promise, but full of mystery as to what it promised.

The bench on which Josephine sat was made of old wreck-timber, and at the sides stood the curved ribs of a ship or boat, meeting overhead, and boarded in, so as to form a rude arbor. The sides cut off the wind, when it did not blow directly on shore, and the seat was a meeting place for the coastguard. As Josephine sat here, a man came round the corner of the house and approached the place where she sat. She did not see him because of the planks that framed in the seat. Five minutes after, another man appeared in like manner round the other angle of the house, and came towards her arbor, and he also was unseen as he drew nigh, for the same reason. The first who came was Richard Cable, and he came to see Bessie. As already said, he had not been to the Magpie since she had been there; but of late a great uneasiness had come over him.

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and had come on to the Magpie after her. But as he had heard from Mrs. Corye that Richard had himself gone in the same direction a few minutes before, he contented himself with slipping round the corner, and planting himself beside the bench, screened by the side, where he thought he might stand unobserved and hear what took place before he showed himself.

So Josephine sat on the old bench with the ribs of a wreck arching over her, planked in on both sides, and the sick child on her lap, both silent, both lost in a day-dream; and on each side of her, unknown to her, stood a man with whom she was intimately allied, and yet from both of whom she was widely partedher father and her husband. She knew nothing of their proximity; she had not heard their steps on the turf; and the wind that blew into the arbor, filled it and whirled about in it, and hummed and piped and broke out into song, and sank into sobs, and pulled at the timbers, making them creak, and sought out their rifts, to whistle through them, so that she could hear no slight sound outside that rude orchestral shell.

He remembered what his mother had said, | as he moved to Red Windows that he laid his foundations in his first-born, and set up the gates in his youngest. In his troubled mind the fancy rose that he had lost his first-born - her love, at least, by thwarting her, and ruining her happiness; and that he was about to lose his poor little Bessie in another way. He had struggled against this impression, against his desire to see her, how she was progressing, to assure himself that the fear that weighed on him was unfounded. At length he had ridden over; and having heard from Mrs. Corye that Josephine was with the child on the bench, he went in search of her; very reluctant to meet Josephine, and very desirous to see his child. He stood screened by the side of the bench, gray wooden wrecked-timber planks, carved over with initials, listening for Bessie's voice, waiting for her to run out on the down, when he would go after her, catch her up in his arms, and carry her off, without having to face Josephine. At first he doubted whether those he sought were there; but there was a round knot-hole in one of the planks, and on looking through that, he saw Josephine, and the little girl leaning on her bosom. Josephine's profile was clean cut against the sky, noble, fine, and beautiful; but he could not see from that silhouette how changed the face was. As he thus stood, now looking through the hole at Josephine and Bessie, then, caught by the fascination of the sea, looking out seaward, los-depths and distances, and glimpses into ing himself in dreams full of trouble and pain and froth and brine, there passed a flicker of sunlight over the rolling ocean, like a skein of floss silk of the purest white blown along the gray surface, and caught and spread by the inequalities, and then lifted and carried on again by the wind. He looked at this till it disap-him, if it had ever existed, peared, and as he looked, his sense of time passed away, and he knew not how long he had been standing there, unable to muster courage to present himself before those who sat so near him and yet were parted from him. As he thus stood, leaning back against the wall, another man came round the house, from the opposite side, and ensconced himself on the other side of the arbor. This was Mr. Cornellis. He had driven up to the Magpie five minutes after the arrival of Cable, and had inquired for Josephine, not by name, but as "the young person staying here with one of Cable's children." He had been to St. Kerian, and had there learned where she was and what she was doing;

Mr. Cornellis leaned back against the wall, with his hands behind him, as a protection to his coat, and looked out to sea; but on him, on him alone of the four, the fascination had no power. The same wondrous expanse, the same travelling glories and obscurities, the same mysterious

further far-away, and screens veiling the far-off, the same call of the many-voiced ocean in one great harmonious song, passed over the mind of Mr. Cornellis, not even as a breath over a mirror that leaves a momentary trace it affected him not at all, for the faculty was dead in the faculty

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of responding to the hidden things of nature. One deep calleth to another deep, sang David, sitting on the hill-slope of Bethlehem, looking away west to the Mediterranean, as the sight of the sea woke in his soul a consciousness of the divine, of the eternal; and the deep sea still calls to the deep in every human soul that has depth; only to the shallow puddles does it call in vain.

Where the planks were joined on the side where stood Mr. Cornellis, a little rift remained. The planks had not fitted orig. inally, or had warped after having been nailed to the stanchions. Through this cleft he looked, and he could see his daughter. He could not see the face of the

O wie wogt es, wie wogt es, so schön auf der

Fluth,

and looking in, saw her swaying the sick Bessie in her arms to the rhythm of the melody.

"She is false also," thought Cable; "she knows I do not wish it."`

child on her bosom; but he saw the head over her arm, and the golden hair in dimpled waves flowing down upon Josephine's "My darling," continued Josephine, dark blue dress, and the parting on the "look me full in the face-look with your top of the head, and just a strip of white blue eyes straight into mine, whilst I tell brow. you something, and I shall be able to read Then both men heard the clear, beauti-in your eyes what you think." She paused, ful voice of Josephine raised in song: and drew a long breath. "You know, my pretty pet," said Josephine, "how you suffer in your back, how that you have always—that is, since you can remember-been a sickly child; that you have not been able to play with your sisters like those who are strong; that you have had much pain to bear, and many sleepless You know that now you are very weak and soon tired, and you do not care to talk much or take exercise, but to lie quiet on my breast and look at the sea. My dear, I also like to look at the sea; and the sea has been talking to me, and telling me to be true-always true, and deal openly, and never hide what should be known, and reap what has not been sown by me. That is why I want to tell you this thing now, which has been kept secret from you. Do you know why you are infirm and in pain, with a suffering life instead of a life joyous and painless?"

Cable saw more - he saw the delicate, transparent hand of his child raised, strok-nights. ing the cheek of her nurse, and then - the song of the mermaid was interrupted as Josephine turned her lips and kissed the little hand.

Josephine did not continue the song, but said: "Bessie, can you kneel on my lap, and let me tell you something?"

The child did not answer in words; she had become very silent of late-the closeness, the reserve of her father was show ing itself as an inherited characteristic in her. But though she did not speak, she acted; she raised her head, put her hands on Josephine's shoulders, and knelt on her lap, opposite her, still resting a hand on each shoulder of her nurse. The wind blew in, took her golden hair, and swept it forward towards the face of Josephine; and Josephine was obliged to make her hold her head away, lest the hair should spread itself over her face and obscure her eyes and prevent her from speaking.

66

My dear Bessie," she said in a voice full of gentleness and sweetness, and with a tremble in it that now never left it, "I must tell you something. I cannot let you coax me, and pat my cheek and kiss me, as you so often do, without your knowing to whom you show this love."

"I do not know," said Bessie.
"No one has told you?"

The child shook her head, and as she did so, the wind caught her yellow hair and wrapped it about her face, so that she was obliged to let go her hold of Josephine's shoulder with one hand, to thrust back her curls behind her ears.

"May I have your blue kerchief with the white spots," asked Bessie, "to tie over my head? The hair blows into my eyes, and I cannot see you."

Then Josephine unknotted the kerchief from her own head-the knot was under her chin and tied it over the golden Then Cable's brows knitted. Josephine head of little Bessie. How was it that, in was going to betray the trust imposed on some dim way, the sight of that blue, her, to tell the child that she was her step-white-spotted kerchief was familiar to mother, and to implant in Bessie's mind Richard? "It is an old pocket-handkerthe suspicion that her father had been un-chief of your father's," said Josephine, just to one who was kind and good. He "and covers you best, as his love is spread took a step forward to leave his hiding- over your head — not over mine." place and prevent the disclosure; but he thought better of his resolution, and desisted. He must not provoke a scene which would agitate his child.

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Then Richard remembered the handkerchief, and the mockery with which once Josephine had spoken of it.

"When your father left Hanford, where he once lived — that was when you were quite a baby, and you remember nothing about it-then he left this kerchief be hind, and I have kept it ever since." "Were you there then?"

"Yes."

"Why did papa leave that place for St. Kerian?"

66

Because, in the first place, the cottage at St. Kerian came to him from your greatuncle; and in the next, he had very painful associations with Hanford."

"You knew him there?" "Yes-and it was there that the sad accident happened which has made you a sufferer."

Cruel, cruel Josephine! always wounding! She was about now to tell his daughter how he had let her fall when he was drunk, and so to turn away the child's heart from him. Thus were his mother's words likely to come true; he had thrown away the heart of his eldest, and the heart of his youngest was to be plucked from him. He set his elbow against the wall, and his fingers he thrust through his hair, and he looked with eyes that gleamed with remorse and anger through the knot-hole at Josephine.

Then she went on in her low voice, that quivered as sunlight on the surface of water: "Look me well in the face, dear Bessie, and do not take your eyes off mine. You shall know the truth now, from my lips. The reason why you have a bad back and an unhappy life is this that you were let fall on a hard stone floor, when you were a baby, and your bones soft and not full set. That is the secret that has not been told you. You were born sound and strong as Mary and Jane and Effie and Martha, and the rest; and now you would be able to run about like the rest, and be strong, and have no pain, but for that fall. Well?" The great brown eyes of Josephine looked into the blue eyes of the child, inquiringly. "Have you nothing to ask? Do you not want to know where the guilt lies of ruining all your sweet and precious life?"

Bessie shook her head, and her golden hair did not flutter, but the end of the blue, white-spotted kerchief, with R. C. marked on it, flapped in the wind.

The brow of Cable was drawn and corded like rope, and his knees shook under him with convulsive agitation. Should he now step forth at this supreme moment and arrest the word on the heartless, venomous woman's lips?

Then in the same low, quivering tones, but yet so clear that Richard lost not one word, Josephine went on: "It was my doing, Bessie. I—and I alone am to blame for all your suffering; and that is also why your father left Hanford - to take you away from me."

Not a wink, not a contraction of the iris in the child's blue orbs.

"Some one," said Josephine, “said to me that when you were told this, you would hate me, and raise your little fists and beat my eyes till they were blind with blood and tears."

Then little Bessie let go her hold of Josephine's shoulders, and threw her arms about her neck, and platted the white fingers in her dark hair, and kissed her passionately on the eyes, and then laid her little head on one of Josephine's shoulders, and looked up into her eyes and said: "But I am glad it was you, and I love you a thousand times better."

Out seaward was a long, hard-edged, black roller coming on to the shore, looking as black and hard as the iron rocks against which it was about to fling itself. But at one point the crest broke and turned into foam; at another point far away in the same wave-crest, another white foam-head appeared; and from each side the foam ran inward, and it seemed as if they must meet and turn the whole long wave into one white breaker. But no! There heaved up between the ap proaching lines of foam a yeasty heap of water, into which the advancing wave dissolved, and lost its continuity. Richard looked seaward at this roller. Little matters determine our actions in moments of indecision. Had the foam-lines met, he would have stepped forward, and an immediate reconciliation might have ensued. But the failure in the wave broke down the dawning desire for reunion, and he stole away back to the inn without a word.

As he left, Mr. Cornellis stood forth, and saw him go, and in another moment confronted his daughter and Bessie. But Cable went into the Magpie and ordered his horse. Then said Mrs. Corye to him: "I suppose you can't carry a parcel? The young woman has done all the seven confirmation dresses, and they are tied up in a parcel, ready to be sent to St. Kerian."

"Give them to me," said Cable; "I will take them in front of my saddle."

When Josephine caught sight of her father, she sprang up with a cry of pleasure and with a flushed face, placed Bessie on the seat and ran to him with outstretched arms. She was so poverty. stricken in love, that she hailed with delight the appearance of one to whom she was tied with the tenderest bands. "O papa! how kind of you to come and see me! Oh! how is dear Aunt Judith?

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She was silent.

"Do you know that he overheard all that passed between you and the child just now? Had he desired a reconciliation, he would have sought it. He did not. He never will. Give up this absurd and hopeless Don Quixote pursuit, and come with me. I am now very well off. You were at Bewdley as a servant; you come back as mistress. I have packed off the worthless crew of domestics and hangerson who preyed on the old lady. Come back with me. You have done more than was necessary to satisfy that fellow Cable; and as he still rejects you, show him proper pride, and leave him to himself."

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Papa!"-she breathed fast" you

are rich now?"

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When Josephine came in, Mrs. Corye pointed to the table, on which something was scrawled in chalk. "Look there," she said.

"HeI mean Cable. wrote that for you, and when you've read it, wipe it out."

On the table was inscribed: "Thursday-bring Bessie. Friday — confirmation." That was all.

From Macmillan's Magazine.
MOULTRIE'S POEMS.*

AND what shall I say of Moultrie, the humorous Moultrie, and the pathetic Moultrie, the Moultrie of Godiva, and the Moultrie of My Brother's Grave? Truly I should say nothing of him, for his genius is so incomprehensible, and his capabilities so varied, that if I were to attempt to draw his character or the next effort of his pen would prove my define his powers, it would be ten to one that every word a lie. I am safe at least in predicting that he will be great, whatever he attempts, and that whether he chooses to laugh or weep, he will laugh and weep to some purpose.

So wrote Praed in 1821, in the concluding number of the Etonian, when, in his character of Peregrine Courtenay, he was dealing with the subject of Etonian poets. But Moultrie, the poetic colleger, who had already left Eton and preceded his friend Praed to Cambridge, was not destined quite to fulfil his schoolfellow's prediction. Indeed, it is a noticeable fact that none of those three clever young poets, Praed, Moultrie, and William Sydney Walker, who between them wrote nearly all the best pieces in the Etonian - and that is no slight praise-realized the brilliant promise of early youth. In Moultrie's case it was not the proverbial fate of poets, an early death, that blighted a rising genius, for he long outlived his two gifted Schoolfellows and died in 1874 in his seventy-fifth year. But, for some reason or other, the subtler grace of his poetic power had faded away with the approach of maturer years and more serious thought; and the productions of his manhood, excellent though they are in force and clearto those of his boyhood in the more peness of expression, are certainly inferior culiar and essential qualities of poetry. Had he died, like Chatterton or Kirke White, at an early age, speculation might have been busy as to the great poems

• Poems; by John Moultrie. Two volumes; London, 1876.

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