Luke. God bless thee, Mary! Dear, go in-I'll

follow;

The air's refreshing-'tis not well with me.

Mary. Not well! Oh, no! there's light enough to

see

How pale thou art. And thou art trembling too,
As if an ague were upon thee! Oh,

Ye heavens, ye will not harm him, for ye know
His trials have but shown his honesty

More worthy of your love!

Luke, (much agitated).

Hush-hush, my Mary.

Mary. How is it, Luke? And what is in your hand

At which you gaze so piteously? Nay, speak!

Indeed, indeed, you terrify me, Luke.

Luke. What didst thou ask?

Mary.

How dost thou ?

Luke.

I am bewilder'd.

Oh, any thing but chiefly

Well, or ill-or both. I know not

Mary. Gold! and so weighty!

Luke.

Here is gold for thee.

Ay-enough to keep us,

With some slight help from labour, all our lives.

Mary. Why, Luke, whence came it?

Luke.

Dishonestly?

Mary.

Dost thou think it came

Not so, I will be sworn.

No-though thou'rt sorely dealt with, and compell'd To toil for sustenance, thou still hast borne

The noblest veins that own Lord Rayland's blood.

Come in, and tell me what hath soften'd him

To send this kindly aid.

Luke.

My father send it!

I will not curse him, lest the words recoil

On thee, my girl. No, no, he sent it not.
Mary. Why is this mystery?

Luke, (after a long pause).

I had a friend

One whom you never saw: he died this morning, And left me this-the earnings of his life.

Mary. And he is blest for it! my gentle Luke, How well that manly tear becomes your eye! This good man's little wealth-how many days And nights of utter hopelessness 'twill spare us! While thankfully, as proudly, thou shalt think It was the meed thy virtue gain'd for us. Luke, (with increased agitation.) Go in-go in." Mary. O, Luke, we'll be so blest! Thou'lt never watch the wintry night again?

With piercing misery behold the heavens,

As if thou wert aweary of the world,

And thy poor Mary too?

Luke.

I shall be changed

Am changed already-changed so much, I scarce

Can calculate what leagues my soul hath travell'd.

So, now to bed.

Mary.

Oh, I have worlds to ask.

Luke, (alone). And I to answer! She did not sus

pect:

She thought I was too honest. My wild brain,
How stands my present fortune with the past?

Till now I sicken'd at the sight of home,
For dread of some new tale of poverty

That must be told. Well-that is past and gone-
And do I now return more happily

With that which must be secret? Was it harder

To bear confiding wretchedness than guilt

In horrid solitude. O, Mary, dear,

No more shall we two, heart to heart, lie down,
And, with our mingling fondness, steal away
Each other's thoughts! What though so steep'd in pain,
Was it not joy to share them? Never more
With their past freedom shall my words pour out
Their tide of tenderness. O, never more,

Lest I betray to what that love did lead me,
And feel thee wither in my breast with horror.
Thy tender confidence, thy modest pride,
In thy poor hunter of the desert moor

So much belied! The smiling, soft, content
With which thou hast partaken of the morsel,
More sweet because provided by my hands,
For ever dash'd. Thy innocent young prayers
That those to whom thy fate might make thee mother
Should be their father's image-all recall'd.

VOL. II.

I

This is not all—there still hath been a hope,
Some possibility of brighter days,

But now 'tis past-the work of this dread night
Hath placed eternity 'twixt me and joy;

And every beam that might have lit me onward
Must blast me with a view more hideous
Of the black barrier. And is there, then,
No more behind? No close attending phantom
Of a rude rabble and detected felon ?

No widow'd maniac hooted through the streets
With sobs and shrieks, or horrid merriment
That weaves the melody in which it dies?
Oh, I have leagued me with a fiend whose grasp
Is on my heart! (starts). Who's there? (in a tone
of exhaustion). Good-morrow, Caleb.

ENTER CALeb.

Caleb. So early rising, Luke? It is not day. Luke. Not day, good Caleb? No. I see it now;

I dreamt, or do remember something said

Of toil betimes this morn, and was unwilling

To waste your time beneath an idler's casement.
And why should you desert your scanty rest
T'anticipate the luckless hours which come
Too soon at last?

Caleb.

Indeed a scanty rest—

And yet not more so than my lord's. Last night
There was small sleep at Willowmead. I found

Its master anxious for the expected guest,
And not prepared to spare me the commands
For which I staid.

Luke, (with suppressed eagerness). And who was he? The guest?

Caleb. I did not ask. Those powder'd underlings Ill sorted with their weather-worn companion.

At midnight came the stranger in hot haste,

So splash'd, and mired, and wofully disorder'd,

You would have sworn some witch had hunted him Through all the bogs of Willowmead.

Luke.

He had a story?

Caleb.

What then?

I should guess he had

But none to tell, save that he lost his way.

And then long council pass'd between the friends,
To which at last a wondering serving-man
Was told to bring the fisherman. 'Twas strange;
The traveller look'd keenly in my face,

And, running over a minute description

Of one he sought, demanded if the like

Could here be found. It was of you he spoke.
Luke. Mary, thou'rt doom'd!

Caleb. What said you?