It was young Allan Clare, who had brought a present of peaches, and some roses, for Rosamund.

He laid his little basket down on a seat of the arbour; and in a respectful tone of voice, as though he were addressing a parent, inquired of Margaret "how she did."

The old lady seemed pleased with his attentions-answered his inquiries by saying, that “her cough was less troublesome a-nights, but she had not yet got rid of it, and probably she never might; but she did not like to tease young people with an account of her infirmities."

A few kind words passed on either side, when young Clare, glancing a tender look at the girl, who had all this time been silent, took leave of them with saying, "I shall bring Elinor to see you in the evening."

When he was gone, the old lady began to prattle.

“That is a sweet-dispositioned youth, and I do love him dearly, I must say it-there is such a modesty in all he says or does-he should not come here so often, to be sure, but I don't know how to help it; there is so much goodness in him, I can't find it in my heart to forbid him. But, Rosamund, girl, I must tell you beforehand; when you grow older, Mr. Clare must be no companion for you while you were both so young it was all very well-but the time is coming, when folks will think harm of it, if a rich young gentleman, like Mr. Clare, comes so often to our poor cottage.-Dost hear, girl? Why don't you answer? Come, I did not mean to say anything to hurt you-speak to me, Rosamund-nay, I must not have you be sullen-I don't love people that are sullen." And in this manner was this poor soul running on, unheard and unheeded, when it occurred to her, that possibly the girl might not be within hearing.

Margaret, we know, was blind; and, in this case, it was lucky for Rosamund that she was so, or she might have made some not unlikely surmises.

I must not have my reader infer from this, that I at all think it likely, a young maid of fourteen would fall in love without asking her grandmother's leave the thing itself is not to be conceived.

To obviate all suspicions, I am disposed to communicate a little anecdote of Rosamund A month or two back her grandmother had been giving her the strictest prohibitions, in her walks, not to go near a certain spot, which was dangerous from the circumstance of a huge overgrown oak-tree spreading its prodigious arms across a deep chalk-pit, which they partly concealed.

To this fatal place Rosamund came one day-female curiosity, we know, is older than the flood-let us not think hardly of the girl, if she partook of the sexual failing.

Rosamund ventured further and furtherclimbed along one of the branches -approached the forbidden chasm-her foot slipped-she was not killed-but it was by a mercy she escaped-other branches intercepted her fall-and with a palpitating heart she made her way back to the cottage.

It happened that evening, that her grandmother was in one of her best humours, caressed Rosamund, talked of old times, and what a blessing it was they two found a shelter in their little cottage, and in conclusion told Rosamund, "she was a good girl, and God would one day reward her for her kindness to her old blind grandmother."

This was more than Rosamund could bear. Her morning's disobedience came fresh into her mind; she felt she did not deserve all this from Margaret, and at last burst into a fit of crying, and made confession of her fault. The old gentlewoman kissed and

forgave her.

Rosamund never went near that naughty chasm again.

of her grandmother, to deceive her, or conceal anything from her, though Margaret was old, and blind, and easy to be imposed upon.

Another virtuous trait I recollect of Rosamund, and now I am in the vein will tell it. Some, I know, will think these things trifles and they are 80- but if these minutia make my reader better acquainted with Rosamund, I am content to abide the imputation.

These promises of character, hints, and early indications of a sweet nature, are to me more dear, and choice in the selection, than any of those pretty wild flowers, which this young maid, this virtuous Rosamund, has ever gathered in a fine May morning, to make a posy to place in the bosom of her old blind friend.

Rosamund had a very just notion of drawing, and would often employ her talent in making sketches of the surrounding scenery. On a landscape, a larger piece than she had ever yet attempted, she had now been working for three or four months. She had taken great pains with it, given much time to it, and it was nearly finished. For whose particular inspection it was designed, I will not venture to conjecture. We know it could not have been for her grandmother's. One day she went out on a short errand, and left her landscape on the table. When she returned, she found it gone.

Rosamund from the first suspected some mischief, but held her tongue. At length she made the fatal discovery. Margaret, in her absence, had laid violent hands on it; not knowing what it was, but taking it for some waste-paper, had torn it in half, and with one half of this elaborate composition had twisted herself up-a thread-1 -paper!

Rosamund spread out her hands at sight of the disaster, gave her grandmother a roguish smile, but said not a word. She knew the poor soul would only fret, if she told her of it, and when once Margaret was set a fretting for other people's misfortunes, the fit held her pretty long.

CHAPTER III.

ROSAMUND GRAY was the most beautiful young creature that eyes ever beheld. Her face had the sweetest expression in it-a gentleness-a modesty-a timidity-a certain charm-a grace without a name.

There was a sort of melancholy mingled in her smile. It was not the thoughtless levity of a girl-it was not the restrained simper of premature womanhood-it was something which the poet Young might have remembered, when he composed that perfect line,

"Soft, modest, melancholy, female, fair.”

She was a mild-eyed maid, and everybody loved her. Young Allan Clare, when but a boy, sighed for her.

Her yellow hair fell in bright and curling clusters, like

"Those hanging locks

Of young Apollo."

Her voice was trembling and musical. A graceful diffidence pleaded for her whenever she spake-and, if she said but little, that little found its way to the heart.

Young, and artless, and innocent, meaning no harm, and thinking none; affectionate as a smiling infant-playful, yet inobtrusive, as a weaned lamb - everybody loved her. Young Allan Clare, when but a boy, sighed for her.

The moon is shining in so brightly at my window, where I write, that I feel it a crime not to suspend my employment awhile to gaze at her.

See how she glideth, in maiden honour, through the clouds, who divide on either side to do her homage.

Beautiful vision !-as I contemplate thee, an internal harmony is communicated to my mind, a moral brightness, a tacit analogy of mental purity; a calm like that we ascribe in fancy to the favoured inhabitants of thy fairy regions," argent fields."

False things are told concerning thee, fair planet-for I will ne'er believe that thou canst take a perverse pleasure in distorting the brains of us, poor mortals. Lunatics! moonstruck! Calumny invented, and folly took up, these names. I would hope better things from thy mild aspect and benign influences.

Lady of Heaven, thou lendest thy pure lamp to light the way to the virgin mourner, when she goes to seek the tomb where her warrior lover lies.

Friend of the distressed, thou speakest only peace to the lonely sufferer, who walks forth in the placid evening, beneath thy gentle light, to chide at fortune, or to complain of changed friends, or unhappy loves.

Do I dream, or doth not even now a heavenly calm descend from thee into my bosom, as I meditate on the chaste loves of Rosamund and her Clare!

CHAPTER IV.

ALLAN CLARE was just two years older than Rosamund. He was a boy of fourteen, when he first became acquainted with herit was soon after she had come to reside with her grandmother at Widford.

He met her by chance one day, carrying a pitcher in her hand, which she had been filling from a neighbouring well-the pitcher was heavy, and she seemed to be bending with its weight.

Allan insisted on carrying it for her-for he thought it a sin that a delicate young maid, like her, should be so employed, and he stand idle by.

On their return, the old lady, who considered them yet as but children, would bid Rosamund fetch Mr. Clare a glass of her currant-wine, a bowl of new milk, or some cheap dainty which was more welcome to Allan than the costliest delicacies of a prince's court.

The boy and girl, for they were no more at that age, grew fond of each other-more fond than either of them suspected.

"They would sit, and sigh,

And look upon each other, and conceive

Not what they ail'd; yet something they did ail,
And yet were well-and yet they were not well;
And what was their disease, they could not tell.”
And thus,

"In this first garden of their simpleness
They spent their childhood."

A circumstance had lately happened, which in some sort altered the nature of their attachment.

Rosamund was one day reading the tale of "Julia de Roubigné "-a book which young Clare had lent her.

Allan was standing by, looking over her, with one hand thrown round her neck, and a finger of the other pointing to a passage in Julia's third letter.

"Maria! in my hours of visionary indulgence, I have sometimes painted to myself a husband-no matter whom-comforting me amidst the distresses which fortune had laid upon us. I have smiled upon him through my tears; tears, not of anguish, but of tenderness !—our children were playing around us, unconscious of misfortune; we had taught them to be humble, and to be happy; our little shed was reserved to us, and their smiles to cheer it. I have imagined the luxury of such a scene, and affliction became a part of my dream of happiness."

He was never happier than when he could get Rosamund to walk out with him. He would make her admire the scenes he admired-fancy the wild flowers he fancied watch the clouds he was watching-and not unfrequently repeat to her poetry which he loved, and make her love it.

Allan was noticing her-yet she durst not lift her eyes from the book, but continued reading, scarce knowing what she read.

Allan guessed the cause of her confusion, Allan trembled too-his colour came and went-his feelings became impetuous—and flinging both arms round her neck, he kissed his young favourite.

Rosamund was vexed and pleased, soothed and frightened, all in a moment-a fit of tears came to her relief.

K K

Allan had indulged before in these little freedoms, and Rosamund had thought no harm of them; but from this time the girl grew timid and reserved-distant in her manner, and careful of her behaviour in Allan's presence-not seeking his society as before, but rather shunning it-delighting more to feed upon his idea in absence.

Allan too, from this day, seemed changed: his manner became, though not less tender, yet more respectful and diffident-his bosom felt a throb it had till now not known, in the society of Rosamund-and, if he was less familiar with her than in former times, that charm of delicacy had superadded a grace to Rosamund, which, while he feared, he loved.

There is a mysterious character, heightened, indeed, by fancy and passion, but not without foundation in reality and observation, which true lovers have ever imputed to the object of their affections. This character Rosamund had now acquired with Allansomething angelic, perfect, exceeding nature.

Young Clare dwelt very near to the cottage. He had lost his parents, who were rather wealthy, early in life; and was left to the care of a sister some ten years older than himself.

Elinor Clare was an excellent young lady -discreet, intelligent, and affectionate. Allan revered her as a parent, while he loved her as his own familiar friend. He told all the little secrets of his heart to her-but there was one, which he had hitherto unaccountably concealed from her-namely, the extent of his regard for Rosamund.

Elinor knew of his visits to the cottage, and was no stranger to the persons of Margaret and her grand-daughter. She had several times met them, when she had been walking with her brother-a civility usually passed on either side-but Elinor avoided troubling her brother with any unseasonable questions.

Allan's heart often beat, and he has been going to tell his sister all-but something like shame (false or true, I shall not stay to inquire) had hitherto kept him back;—still the secret, unrevealed, hung upon his conscience like a crime-for his temper had a sweet and noble frankness in it, which bespake him yet a virgin from the world.

There was a fine openness in his counte

nance-the character of it somewhat resembled Rosamund's-except that more fire and enthusiasm were discernible in Allan's; his eyes were of a darker blue than Rosamund's

his hair was of a chestnut colour-his cheeks ruddy, and tinged with brown. There was a cordial sweetness in Allan's smile, the like to which I never saw in any other face.

Elinor had hitherto connived at her brother's attachment to Rosamund. Elinor, I believe, was something of a physiognomist, and thought she could trace in the countenance and manner of Rosamund, qualities which no brother of hers need be ashamed to love.

The time was now come when Elinor was desirous of knowing her brother's favourite more intimately-an opportunity offered of breaking the matter to Allan.

The morning of the day in which he carried his present of fruit and flowers to Rosamund, his sister had observed him more than usually busy in the garden, culling fruit with a nicety of choice not common to him.

She came up to him, unobserved, and, taking him by the arm, inquired, with a questioning smile-"What are you doing, Allan? and who are those peaches designed for?"

"For Rosamund Gray"-he replied-and his heart seemed relieved of a burthen which had long oppressed it.

"I have a mind to become acquainted with your handsome friend-will you introduce me, Allan? I think I should like to go and see her this afternoon."

"Do go, do go, Elinor-you don't know what a good creature she is; and old blind Margaret, you will like her very much."

His sister promised to accompany him after dinner; and they parted. Allan gathered no more peaches, but hastily cropping a few roses to fling into his basket, went away with it half-filled, being impatient to announce to Rosamund the coming of her promised visitor.

CHAPTER V.

WHEN Allan returned home, he found an invitation had been left for him, in his absence, to spend that evening with a young

friend, who had just quitted a public school in London, and was come to pass one night in his father's house at Widford, previous to his departure the next morning for Edinburgh University.

It was Allan's bosom friend-they had not met for some months-and it was probable a much longer time must intervene before they should meet again.

Yet Allan could not help looking a little blank when he first heard of the invitation. This was to have been an important evening. But Elinor soon relieved her brother by expressing her readiness to go alone to the cottage.

"I will not lose the pleasure I promised myself, whatever you may determine upon, Allan; I will go by myself rather than be disappointed."

"Will you, will you, Elinor?"

Elinor promised to go-and I believe, Allan, on a second thought, was not very sorry to be spared the awkwardness of introducing two persons to each other, both so dear to him, but either of whom might happen not much to fancy the other.

At times, indeed, he was confident that Elinor must love Rosamund, and Rosamund must love Elinor; but there were also times in which he felt misgivings-it was an event he could scarce hope for very joy!

Allan's real presence that evening was more at the cottage than at the house, where his bodily semblance was visiting- his friend could not help complaining of a certain absence of mind, a coldness he called it.

It might have been expected, and in the course of things predicted, that Allan would have asked his friend some questions of what had happened since their last meeting, what his feelings were on leaving school, the probable time when they should meet again, and a hundred natural questions which friendship is most lavish of at such times; but nothing of all this ever occurred to Allan -they did not even settle the method of their future correspondence.

The consequence was, as might have been expected, Allan's friend thought him much altered, and, after his departure, sat down to compose a doleful sonnet about a "faithless friend."-I do not find that he ever finished

it-indignation, or a dearth of rhymes, causing him to break off in the middle.

CHAPTER VI.

In my catalogue of the little library at the cottage, I forgot to mention a book of Common Prayer. My reader's fancy might easily have supplied the omission-old ladies of Margaret's stamp (God bless them!) may as well be without their spectacles, or their elbow chair, as their prayer-book-I love them for it.

Margaret's was a handsome octavo, printed by Baskerville, the binding red, and fortified with silver at the edges. Out of this book it was their custom every afternoon to read the proper psalms appointed for the day.

The way they managed was this: they took verse by verse-Rosamund read her little portion, and Margaret repeated hers in turn, from memory-for Margaret could say all the Psalter by heart, and a good part of the Bible besides. She would not unfrequently put the girl right when she stumbled or skipped. This Margaret imputed to giddiness-a quality which Rosamund was by no means remarkable for-but old ladies, like Margaret, are not in all instances alike discriminative.

They had been employed in this manner just before Miss Clare arrived at the cottage. The psalm they had been reading was the hundred and fourth-Margaret was naturally led by it into a discussion of the works of creation.

There had been thunder in the course of the day-an occasion of instruction which the old lady never let pass-she began

"Thunder has a very awful sound—some say God Almighty is angry whenever it thunders-that it is the voice of God speaking to us; for my part, I am not afraid of it ”———————

And in this manner the old lady was going on to particularise, as usual, its beneficial effects, in clearing the air, destroying of vermin, &c., when the entrance of Miss Clare put an end to her discourse.

Rosamund received her with respectful tenderness-and, taking her grandmother by the hand, said, with great sweetness, "Miss Clare is come to see you, grandmother."

"I beg pardon, lady—I cannot see youbut you are heartily welcome. Is your