grew restless and uncomfortable. At last, seeing no chance of the brief interview he sought, he went to Sir James's study. Katharine was still reading; but there was a vacant look in the old man's eyes which seemed to imply that the listener profited as little as the reader. Every now and then he interrupted her, to ask, in a voice feebler than usual, some question that betokened a wandering mind. He did not notice Paul's entrance, and the young man motioned to Katharine not to stop, while he placed himself behind her, and looked over what she read. It was an old paper that chronicled the coronation of George III.; and Paul could not help listening with a strange, almost painful feeling, to the description of festivities, courtiers, and court beauties, whose very memory had passed away. "I should think it must have been a gay sight, grandpapa?" said Katharine, stopping. "Eh, what did you say? my child." Katharine repeated her observation. "Read that last sentence again, dear; I don't think I quite understood it; indeed, things do not seem quite clear here to-day." The old man touched his forehead, with a feeble smile, and tried to attend while Katharine read. Then he shook his head mournfully, and said— "It is of no use, Katharine; I can't make it out. What is it ?" "It is an account of the coronation levée, dear grandpapa, and of who were presented; and look, here, is your own name, Sir James Ogilvie, among the rest.' "Ah, yes-I remember I went-let me see, it must have been last week, for the Gazette appears weekly now. And the king has asked me to go down to Windsor and hunt; don't forget that, Katharine; and while I think of it, ring for Peters, to see about Ringdove. His Majesty said there was not a finer hunter any where than my_Ringdove. Make haste, love." Katharine looked imploringly at Paul Lynedon, who slipped forward. "My dear Sir James, you are thinking of things long gone by." My own Katharine," repeated the old man; "yes, it must be Katharine-Katharine Mayhew. But you mistake, my lord, you must not call her my Katharine. Come another day, and I'll tell you all about it; I can't now;" and his voice trembled! "There she is, weeping still; my dear friend, go to her; we must do as the world does, and if her father should come in-tell her I did love her-I did indeed—and I always shall, though they will not let us marry. Katharine, my Katharine, do not weep." His voice dropped almost to a whisper, and he leaned back with closed eyes, his fingers fluttering to and fro on the elbows of the chair. Lynedon motioned for Katharine to speak to him. "Are you tired, dear grandpapa, or not well. Shall I call any one ?" "No, no, no! I am quite well, only tired; so tired." "Is your father in the house, Katharine ?" asked Paul, who felt more alarmed than he liked to let her see. 'No; he is gone out with Mrs. Lancaster, I think to the church." "Church!" said the old baronet, opening his eyes at the word. "Are we at the church? Ah, yes, I remember I promised.. And so you are to be married, Katharine Mayhew-married after all? Well, well; and this is your bridegroom-and his name "Dear grandpapa, you are thinking of something else," cried Katharine, sobbing. "Here is no one but Mr. Lynedon and myself." "Lynedon-so you are going to marry a Lynedon; well, I had not thought so once; but here we are, and I must say the words myself. Give me your hands—” "Do not contradict him, it is best not," whispered Paul. Sir James joined their hands together-even at that moment of terror and excitement—a wild thrill shot through Katharine's heart, and her very brow crimsoned at the touch. The old man muttered some indistinct sounds, and stopped. "I have forgotten the service! how does it begin? Ah! I remember," said he, very faintly -"Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; "Eh-what-who are you, sir? I never saw you before," said the old man, over whom a-yes, yes—" strange change appeared to have come, for his Katharine started up, and shrieked with terror, dim eyes glittered, and he moved restlessly in for her grandfather had sunk back in his chair, his chair. "Katharine, who is this man? I white and ghastly. One feeble shudder condon't know him. What is he going to do with vulsed the aged limbs, and then all was stillme?" and he caught his grandchild's hand un-ness. easily. "Dearest grandpapa, it is only Mr. Lynedon." "Lynedon; ah, to be sure-Viscount Lynedon; my dear lord, so you have come from the levée; perhaps the king has invited you, too? Ah! is it so?-that's well. How young you look; you find me not over strong, my dear friend, but I shall soon be better-very soon." The old man paused a moment in his unusual volubility, and turned to Lynedon and Katharine -neither of whom would speak. A vague terror oppressed the latter; she became very pale, and her eyes filled with tears. Sir James looked wistfully at her. "Who is that lady-I don't remember her ?" he whispered to Lynedon. Katharine's tears overflowed, and she hid her face. "It is Katharine—your own Katharine," said Paul. Paul and Katharine-their hands still clasped together-stood in the presence of Death! three hours after the first excitement and terrorstricken surprise of the family had subsided into the stillness of a household which had been invaded by Death. The lady's remark drew no answer from Paul Lynedon, who was the only person present. He sat, leaning his head on his hand, in a grave attitude. "I wish Julian would make haste with the carriage," restlessly muttered Mrs. Lancaster. "I shall be glad to get away. It is so very unpleasant to be where there is a death in the house; it makes me quite nervous. If the old gentleman had but lived until night. Really, Mr. Lynedon, I wish you would speak, instead of sitting there without uttering a word—and when you see me so agitated, too." "I am very sorry," began Paul, in an absent tone. "Death is, indeed, solemn." "Of course, of course; but you know I do not think with these stupid, church-going people. No one of strong mind would. There is Mrs. Ogilvie, with her Bible quotations, and her talk about 'submission,' as if it were not a good thing that the old man is gone-such a trouble as he was. Of course, they are all in their hearts quite thankful for the event." At this moment a low moaning from one of the distant apartments reached the drawingroom. Paul Lynedon's countenance changed, from the apathy with which he had listened to Mrs. Lancaster, to an expression of deep compassion. "Hark! that is Katharine. Poor child, poor child," he said, softly. "She has been in hysterics ever since you carried her to her room. It is almost time the scene were ended, I fancy," answered the lady, sarcastically. "Mrs. Lancaster!" said Paul Lynedon, with a look of grave reproof; but immediately recollecting himself, his countenance resumed its usual expression, and he relapsed into the thoughtful silence which had excited Mrs. Lan caster's animadversions. She, on her part, was becoming thoroughly vexed with her protegé. For several days he had not paid her half the attention she exacted, or wished to exact; and now it appeared to her that his mind was entirely occupied by thoughts in which she had evidently no share. The lady's conjectures were right. At this moment her worldliness and cold-heartedness were almost abhorrent to Paul Lynedon. For days there had been a struggle within him between the two influences-the true and the unreal; custom, on the one hand; and, on the other, purity, simplicity, and nature. The latter was especially attractive, as they came in the guise of Eleanor Ogilvie. Now, startled, awed by the day's event, and brought, for the first time in his life, within the presence of death-at least of sudden deathLynedon had put off, for a while, the fictions which constituted his outer self, and there was something powerfully repugnant in the affectations with which Mrs. Lancaster broke in upon the current of thoughts, deeper and purer than the young man had indulged in for a long season. "Thank heaven, there are the carriagewheels," cried Mrs. Lancaster, who had been Impatiently beating time on the window-panes "Now we shall get with her gloved fingers. away without meeting the family." "What! shall you not see them before you go?" asked Paul, with much surprise. "Oh, no; such an intrusion would be indecorous. I will send cards when I get home." "Cards! Why, I thought, of all woman's duties and privileges, there was none so sacred as that of consolation. Surely I have heard you say so yourself." Mrs. Lancaster shrugged her shoulders. "In other cases, certainly; but in this-however, my dear friend, I can not argue the point now, for here is Julian with the boxes. Really, it is very disagreeable to wait upon ourselves, and all because of this old gentleman's death. However, we shall soon be at home. Of course, you are quite ready, Mr. Lynedon." "I beg your pardon, but I do not go just yet." "Not go! And, pray, what is the reason of this sudden and most disinterested resolution ?" said Mrs. Lancaster, with a smile of such iron, ical meaning, that Paul Lynedon's brown cheek grew many shades deeper with annoyance. But, as was customary with him, he only showed his vexation by answering in a tone more firm and haughty than usual. "Mrs. Lancaster, my only reason is one so trifling, that it hardly deserves your attention. Merely, that having received much courtesy in this house, I wish to return it, by inquiring if, in this time of confusion and anxiety, I can in any way be of use; and so, with an apology for troubling you with this explanation, allow me to lead you to your carriage.' Verily, the stateliness of the whole Lynedon race, for a century back, was compressed in Paul, when he chose to exhibit that peculiar manner. The petite, graceful Mrs. Lancaster shrank into nothing beside the overwhelming courtesy of his demeanor, and they were silently descending the staircase, when Eleanor Ogilvie appeared. "How very unpleasant!" and "how fortunate!" cried Mrs. Lancaster, in a breath, the former being, of course, an aside. But a glance at Eleanor's face, which, though a degree paler than ordinary, was perfectly composed, freed the departing guest from the apprehension of a scene, and she re-ascended to the drawing-room. "My dearest Eleanor, I would fain have saved us all the pain of an adieu-these most afflicting circumstances-your feelings-my own;" and here Mrs. Lancaster took out her pocket-handkerchief. But Eleanor neither wept, nor made any pretense of doing so. "Thank you for your sympathy," she answered; "and since I see you are going, may I hope that you will excus an omission which-' "Excuse! My dear young friend, I would have remained could I have been any comfort; but I thought the kindest act was to intrude no longer on your sorrow." Eleanor offered no word of dissent to this remark, and Mrs. Lancaster felt so completely at a loss that she again had recourse to her pockethandkerchief. "You will bear my adieus and condolence to your aunt and to poor, dear Miss Ogilvie, who must be sadly afflicted." "Yes," said Eleanor, briefly. She suffered Mrs. Lancaster's vail to sweep her cheek in a salute, and then held out her hand to Paul Lyne- | The storms of a lifetime may intervene, but that don, who had stood by in perfect silence. such first true love should pass away-never, never!" He took her hand, but said quietly, "I am not bidding adieu, for I do not return to town until night; perhaps I may be of some service." "You are very kind," was Eleanor's reply, "but we will not encroach on your good offices, there is no need." "That is just what I have been telling him, Miss Eleanor; he will only be in the way; you had better come with us, Lynedon," said Mrs. Lancaster. Paul never answered her, but raised his eyes to Eleanor; his look was so full of earnest feeling, sympathy, and sincere kindliness, that she was touched. "You will let me stay, if I can be of use to any one here," he said, gently, when Mrs. Lancaster walked forward, in ill-concealed impatience. "Thank you, yes; do as you will," answered Eleanor, while the tears which affected sympathy would never have drawn forth, confessed the influence of real feeling. The traces of this emotion were still on her cheek when Paul Lynedon returned to the room. They went to his very heart, for men to whom tears are unknown seem most susceptible to their power in women. There is probably hardly any man living who does not feel his heart drawn to the girl he loves, or even is only beginning to love, if he sees her under the influence of any grief deep enough to call forth tears. Eleanor's lips trembled, her bosom heaved, and the voice of her soul, even more than that of her tongue, echoed the "never!" It was as the one amen to the universal love-orison which every young heart breathes at its first awakening. But how rarely does each life's history work out the fulfillment of the prayer. And not only do fate's mysteries, but the willfulness, change, and weakness of humanity itself cast a shadow between it and that blessed "never" which, while still believed in, is strength and hope; for love is no longer divine to us when we find out, or only begin to suspect, that it is not eternal. Lynedon watched Eleanor's evident emotion with a thrill of rapture which he could hardly conceal. He interpreted all as a lover would fain do. Her lightest word, her most passing. look, might then have drawn from him the confession of his feelings, and would surely have done so, despite the time and place, had there been in her an answering love, thus involuntarily betraying itself. But, when Eleanor lifted up her face, the look which met his was so calm, so unconstrained in its maidenly frankness, that the most enthusiastic, self-deceiving lover would not have discovered in it the secret which he might desire to see. Paul Lynedon shrank back into himself, and the passionate words which had risen from his heart almost to his lips died away in the ordinary expressions of feeling called forth by the occasion. And even these were so cold that Eleanor seemed surprised. She looked in his face, which was pale and agitated, and her womanly sympathy at once supplied the imag So it was that when Lynedon came again into Eleanor's presence, his manner was so subdued, so tender, so free from all affectation, that she had never felt more inclined to regard him with friendly feelings. That she could either inspire or return a warmer sentiment, had not once entered Eleanor's mind with respect to Paul Lyne-ined cause. don; therefore, her manner was always frank, open, and kindly, and now even gentler than usual. "This is kind of you-very kind," she said, giving him her hand. He pressed it warmly, as a friend might, and then let it go; he dared not, he could not suffer the expression of earthly love to intrude at such a time. I feel very much with you—indeed I do," said Paul's low, musical tones; "and that dear child, poor Katharine, it was a terrible shock for her." "Yes, Katharine loved him very dearly, and she was the darling of his heart. He gave her her name, and she was his god-child, too. Poor grandpapa! I think he loved Katharine better than any one in the world. How strange that no one should have been present when he died, except you and herself. Did he say any thing, or seem to suffer? Poor Katharine has told us nothing; indeed, she has been weeping incessantly ever since." Then Paul Lynedon related the scene in the study, and the strange delusion under which Sir James had died; a common sympathy, though neither was aware of it, made Paul speak and Eleanor listen with deep interest to the touching memory of a long-past love. "And he remembered her even then, this Katharine Mayhew. How strange !" murmured Eleanor. "It is not strange," said Paul, earnestly; "no man ever forgets the woman whom he first loved. "How ill you look, Mr. Lynedon," said she, while her gentle tone and kind eyes expressed more than her words. "We have been thinking so much of ourselves, and have forgotten how much this painful day must have affected you. Sit down, and let me bring you a glass of wine. I will have no refusal.” Paul had no power to refuse. When Eleanor brought him the wine he took it from her hand, drank it, and then leaned his head against the wall, incapable of uttering one word. Eleanor stood by him with a feeling of strange interest, mingled with compassion. At last he roused himself, and said, with a faint smile— "You must pardon me." "There is no need; it was a trying sceneno wonder it affected you. I often think that men can less bear to come within the shadow of death than can women. It is our fate-it is we who have to meet the terrible one face to face! No matter how regardless a man may be during his life of all female ties, it is from mother, wife, sister, or daughter, that he will seek the last offices of kindness. We leave wordly pleasures to you, but you look to us for comfort at the last." Eleanor had said all this-a long speech it was, too, for one of her generally undemonstrative character-with the kindly intention of giving Paul time to recover himself. When she ceased, she found his eyes fixed upon her face with an intense, earnest gaze. But it was not so much that of a lover toward his mistress. as the upraised, almost adoring look which a Catholic worshiper might turn to his saint; and there was a sweetness and benignity almost motherlike in the placid face that bent over Paul Lynedon, and assuaged the troubled waters of his spirit until they sunk into a calm. "Have I talked to you until you are wearied ?" said Eleanor, with one of her peculiar shadowy smiles. "It is some time since I have said so much on my own account. How much longer would you listen, I wonder?" "Forever! forever!" muttered Paul Lynedon. "What were you saying?" inquired the unconscious Eleanor. Paul recollected himself at once. "That you are very kind and thoughtful-just like a woman, and that I am ashamed to have given you so much trouble." "Then you feel quite well, now? If so, I will go up to see poor Katharine." "Not yet, not yet," Lynedon hastily interposed. You were to tell me if there is any thing I can do in London-any business to arrange; or, if not to-day, can not I ride back here to-morrow and see? You do not know what pleasure it would give me to do any thing for you that is, for the family." "I am sure of it-I know how good you are," said Eleanor, with a look full of kindness; "but my uncle and Hugh are both at home." "Nay, your brother is out ten miles off in the forest. Shall I ride over to meet him, and inform him of this sad event ?" "Thank you, but we have already sent: indeed, Mr. Lynedon, there is really no need for the exercise of your kindness; and since, to be frank with you, my uncle and aunt will like best to see no one except Hugh and myself, I will positively send you away.' "But I may come to-morrow, or the next day, only to inquire after you all; and perhaps see yourself or your brother for a few minutes. It will be a satisfaction to me; and Mrs. Lancaster, too, will be glad—” Eleanor's countenance changed a little-a very little-she was so sincere, that even a passing thought ever cast some reflected shadow on her face; her companion saw it, and hastened to remove the impression. "You must not judge of me by—that is, I mean to say that a man is not accountable for the faults of his friends, or-or-acquaintance." There was some confusion in his speech, which was not removed by Eleanor's total silence. "I wish you to think well of me-indeed I do," the young man continued; “I know there is much in me wrong; but then I have been left to myself since boyhood; for years have not had a home, a mother or a sister, and so I have grown more worldly than 1 ought to be. For this reason, now, in going away, I feel how much I owe for the pleasant and good influence of this week to you and to others." Paul was treading on dangerous ground, but once more Eleanor's composure saved him. Good-by," repeated Paul, as he lingeringly opened the door for her, and watched her light figure ascend the winding staircase. When she disappeared, his breast relieved itself with a heavy sigh. Paul rode home, fully impressed with the conviction that the star of his life, present and to come, was Eleanor Ogilvie. There was a degree of irresolution in the character of Lynedon that caused him often to be swayed against his will. With him the past or the future were always subservient to the influence of the present. So, when he had ridden to Summerwood three times in the first week after Sir James's death, and thereupon borne a considerable number of Mrs. Lancaster's smiles and inuendoes, he began to feel that there was some cause for the neglect, of which she accused her guest; and as the charms of Summerwood grew dim, in the attractions of successive intellectual dissipations-for it is due to Paul to say that no others could have any influence over his fine mind-it so chanced that, for the next fortnight, he never went near the Ogilvie family. CHAPTER X. The transition from sorrow to joy is easiest in pure He stood beside me KATHARINE OGILVIE sat in the room which had so long been her grandfather's. It was now, by her own desire, virtually resigned to her. None of his own children had loved, and been loved by Sir James Ogilvie, like this young girl, who had sprung up in the third generation a late-given flower, to cast sweetness over his old age. So Katharine seemed to have a right, beyond all others, to his room, and every thing that had belonged to him. When she recovered from the grief and agitation which for some days had amounted to real illness, she took possession of the study without any opposition, except that her mother's anxious tenderness feared lest the scene of waning life and awfully sudden death might have a painful effect on a mind so young. A But Katharine seemed to have arisen from this trance of pain and suffering with a new character. During that week of illness she had merged from the child into the woman. change had passed over her-the life-change, wherein the heart awakes as out of sleep, to feel, with a terrible vividness, the reality of those pulses which had faintly stirred in its dreams. "I am glad we have made you happy; indeed, we wished to do so, Katharine and I; and it has been a pleasant week to us all, but for its sad ending. And now, Mr. Lynedon, since I am the only one of the household who can take-she knew that she loved. leave of you, let me thank you again, on the part of all, and say good-by." Katharine knew that the power, of which she had read and mused, had come upon her own soul. She felt in herself the truth of what she had seen shadowed forth in romance and song It is with a sensation almost amounting to fear that a young maiden first discovers the real every thing as usual; but it would not do. The day lagged very heavily, and though Hugh was too good-natured to allude to the hunt, it recurred sorrowfully to his mind, as he saw from the study windows a few moving specks of scarlet sweeping along the distant country. At last, when a horse's feet were heard up the avenue, he could rest quiet no longer. "It is surely one of the men from the hunt; I will just go and speak to him, and ask him to have some lunch. You will not mind being left alone for a few minutes, dear Katharine ?" "Oh, no!-not at all! You are only too kind to me, cousin Hugh; pray go, and enjoy yourself." presence of the life-influence in her heart-when she feels that her existence no longer centers in itself alone, but has another added to it, which becomes, and will become more and more, its breath, its very soul. Katharine, who, in her unconscious simplicity, had given herself up so entirely to this pleasant reverie, of which Paul Lynedon was the presiding spirit, almost shuddered when the light broke in upon her and told her that dream was her life. Nor, with her, was love that girlish fancy which is born of idleness, nourished by vanity, and dies in a few months, of sheer inanition, to revive again in some new phase, and, thus transferred from object to object, lives out its scores of petty lives, until it fairly wears itself out, or settles, at the The door closed on him, and Katharine leaned call of duty or interest, within the calm bound- back in quiet, dreamy solitude. She thought aries of matrimonial necessity. Words can not of her grandfather-how soon every memory of too much ridicule or condemn this desecration. him had passed away from the household-how But a pure-hearted woman's sincere, true, and even the long life of eighty years, with all its life-long love, awakened by what either is, or ties and all its events, had become like a shadow what she deems to be, noble and perfect in her—had crumbled into nothing at the touch of ideal, and, as such, made the secret religion of death-so that in the world not even a month's her heart, whereon no eye may look, yet which void was left by the human soul now departed. is the hidden spring influencing all her thoughts And then Katharine's mind reverted to the and actions-this love is no shame, but a thing closing scene of his life: the old man's vague, most sacred, too solemn to be lightly spoken of, wandering words, which she felt referred to too exalted to need idle pity, too holy to awaken some memory of his youth, which he had strangeany feeling save reverence. ly connected with her, not knowing that the universal chord thus touched in the shadowy past had found its echo in the present; that the impulse swayed the spirit then passing away and that just entering upon its world-struggles. And amidst the solemn mournfulness of this death-vision came the remembered face of Paul Lynedon-the gentle sympathy of his look, the touch of his hand, the strange symbolizing of their united fate-for so it might prove-who could tell? And Katharine gave herself up to the wild love-reverie of early youth, until the one whose influence, magician-like, had peopled her life with such glorious imaginings, stood by her side. And such a love was Katharine's for Paul Lynedon. She sat in her grandfather's chair, her brow resting against the same cushion where in death had fallen the aged head now pillowed in eternal repose. Katharine turned away from the light, and closed her eyes. Her hands lay crossed on her knee, their extreme and almost sickly whiteness contrasting with her black dress. She was no longer an invalid; but a dreaminess and languor still hung over her, giving their own expression to her face and attitude. It was a pleasure to sit still and think-one so great that she often suffered her parents and Hugh to suppose her asleep, rather than be disturbed by conversation. The room was so quiet, that she might have been alone; but Hugh, who ever since her recovery, had followed her like a shadow, sat at the window, making his eternal flies—at least, that was his excuse for remaining with her in the study, but he oftener looked at Katharine than at his work. So silent and quiet was he, that she had entirely forgotten his presence, until, waking from her reverie with a half-suppressed sigh, she saw Hugh creep softly to her chair. "I thought you were asleep, Katharine; are you awake now?" he said, affectionately. Katharine's answer was a smile. She felt very grateful to Hugh, who had been her chief companion for some days, and had striven in every way to amuse her. He had given up the finest hunt of the season to stay at home with her, and, after in vain trying to interest her in the adventures of every fox dispatched during the winter, had finally offered to read aloud to her out of any book she liked, provided it was not poetry. But the time was gone by when the lingering childishness of Katharine's nature would sympathize with those purely physical delights of exercise and out-door amusement which constituted Hugh's world. She tried to hide this from him, and attempted to enter into Katharine had never seen Paul Lynedon since the moment when, half insensible, she had felt herself borne in his arms from the chamber of death. Now he came so suddenly into her presence, that at the sight of him her heart seemed to suspend its beatings. Not a word came from her colorless lips, and the hand Paul took between his own felt like marble. "Dear Katharine, I fear I have startled you,' he said, anxiously; "but I was so glad to see you. I never thought of all the past—this room, too-how foolish it was of me." Katharine drooped her head, and burst into tears. Paul's kindly feelings were roused. He waited until Katharine's emotion had somewhat exhausted itself, and then laid her head back on the cushion, smoothing her soft black hair with his hand, as gently and soothingly as an elder brother or father might have done. "Poor Katharine, dear Katharine, you have suffered much; but we will not think of it any more now. Let us talk about something else, and I will sit by you until you have quite recovered yourself. You see, the first thing I did was to come here to see you. Your cousin Hugh told me he had left you in the study." A happy smile broke through Katharine's tears, and a faint color flitted over her cheek. |