affection; and after dwelling upon its depth and sincerity, proceeded to describe, in the most glowing terms, bright pictures of their future life together, when her word would be to him as a law, and her presence continually inspire him to press on in the path of fame, and master every difficulty. He spoke with passionate eagerness; but warmly as he pleaded his cause, and brought forth every argument which he deemed likely to avail, he had never thoroughly realised to himself the dreadful idea that he could ever plead in vain; and the very knowledge of his own long-hidden attachment being the one over-mastering feeling that, despite his many failings, had taken deep root in his heart, rendered it to his mind almost impossible that such love could be destined to meet with no return. He watched with anxious eyes the flush that was passing over his companion's otherwise unaltered countenance, and, with feelings which at that moment it would have been difficult to define, heard her reply, in a quiet tone,

"What strange idea possesses you, Gilbert, and to what is it to be ascribed? This Utopian scheme of happiness is a mere boyish fancy: you do not yet know your own mind. It will be sufficiently early in two or three years," she added, with a slight smile, "to decide upon what will promote your happiness; you are much too young to hazard an opinion yet upon that subject."

The hot blood mounted to Gilbert's cheek as she pronounced these words; and had it been any one but herself that stood before him, with her calm, cold glance meeting his own, the ungovernable anger that raged within his heart would have found vent. But checking its further demonstration, he asked if she still considered him as a child, that she treated his proposal with such contempt.

"You are not a child, perhaps, in years, Gilbert,"

returned Margaret, "but you have not yet acquired the power of regulating your own passions; and therefore, to prevent any further recurrence to the subject, I now tell you that I could not (even were you many years older than you are) trust my future happiness to the care of one who does not even know how to govern himself. I am not insensible to the preference you have shown me, but we are so unlike in every way that our hopes of happiness together, would be very slender, and I may also add that one who shows so little affection, or even consideration, for his own nearest relations, is not likely to be transformed, as if by magic, into a tender and devoted husband. For your own sake, Gilbert, if you would spare yourself much needless remorse, you will practise self-government, and forget all this; you will soon return to Oxford, and will then have little leisure to indulge such thoughts."

Margaret rose, and would have left the room, but Gilbert, now enraged beyond endurance, seized her hand, and detained her while he uttered some passionate, but almost unintelligible words of reproachful indignation.

"Gilbert, you are strangely forgetful," she said. haughtily, as she endeavoured to release her hand, your present state of excitement can alone excuse this ungentlemanly conduct."

The cool contempt with which these words were uttered, seemed to agitate the young man fearfully ; he instantly started up, and rushed from the room. Margaret, after the lapse of a few minutes, proceeded to her own apartment, and was in the midst of some preparations for taking a solitary ramble in the park, when she was unexpectedly interrupted by the abrupt entrance of Mrs. Dudley, who was in

tears.

"My dear Margaret, we are going to lose Gil

bert, I cannot think what can be the matter with him; he has just been to me to say that he should start immediately for Oxford. I cannot think what can be the reason of this sudden departure, he never mentioned it before,—did he tell you?"

"I am not acquainted with Gilbert's movements," replied her niece, without raising her eyes, "I suppose he consults his own pleasure."

"I hope he does, I am sure, my dear, but I fear it must have been a letter from the Principal, because he said nothing about going this morning; no one had any notice of it. And it is as much as all the servants can do to get his boxes packed in time; poor Alice is running about in all directions. I am sure it must have been some bad news, for the dear boy is so pale, and really does not know what he is about; he will not wait for all his boxes to be ready, so he will start almost immediately. Do make haste, and come down, my love, or you will not be in time to bid him good-bye."

Mrs. Dudley was very anxious to hurry her niece into the presence of Gilbert, but as she did not move, she altered her first suggestion, and observed, "But, of course, my dear, I need not disturb you, for Gilbert will come himself, I am sure, to say good-bye, so I shall leave you, for I must see that he is attended to."

Mrs. Dudley hastened to the scene of her son's preparations, and found him standing in one of the recesses of the windows, with his great coat on his arm, evidently ready to take his departure. His cheek was flushed, and his expression betrayed much internal agitation; a deep shade was gathered on his brow, his eyes were dark and gloomy, and his lips firmly compressed, seemed to denote that he was under the influence of secret but ill-restrained passion.

66

Mother, I have been waiting to bid you good

bye," he said, in a voice which was broken by emotion, "you will write as often as you can," and he kissed her with even less warmth than he usually evinced. Then turning to Alice, who stood weeping at his side, he embraced her in silence, and tore himself away. Mrs. Dudley hastened after him, to place in his hands a box of sandwiches for the journey; while his sister detained him for a moment to implore him to write as soon as he reached Oxford. He roughly disengaged himself from her grasp with an impatient exclamation, and entering the carriage, it drove off, and Gilbert quitted the hall with a heavier heart than he had felt for years.

CHAPTER XI.

"List, Christian warrior, thou, whose soul is fain
To rid thy Mother of her present chain ;—
CHRIST will unloose His Church; yea, even now
Begins the work."

Lyra Apostolica.

MR. BERNARD was leaning thoughtfully over the gate of his own garden, one fair evening at sunset, and his gaze was fixed upon the venerable spire of S. Edmund's, rising clearly against that pale grey sky. Faithful hands had reared that house of prayer, and zealous hearts had offered up the choicest of their earthly gifts to deck the temple of the LORD; but there had been succeeding years of cold irreverence, in which sadly marred had been the once perfect beauty of the sanctuary. Where once in days long past, many a humble worshipper had knelt; where, day by day had echoed the chanted melody of each matin and vesper prayer, and the faithful, the loving and the penitent came often with lowly mien and bowed hearts to receive the holy Eucharist, there the hand of the spoiler had been stretched forth, and schismatic violence had broken down the carved work of the sanctuary.

Then succeeded the days of cold indifference, when the forsaken aisles, but rarely more than once in seven days echoed with the sublime ritual of the Church, sublime though it were celebrated