f Norway, to the Alhambra and the sunlit 'isles of Greece,'
this grandson of a Suffolk peasant, elevated to the ranks of independence
and intellectual culture by the wisdom and self-denial of his immediate
ancestors, saw, and sketched, and intensely enjoyed the beauty with
which God has clothed the Old World. And in that same sketch-book, his
constant companion, there was one page which opened oftener than any
other--fell open of itself, if you held the volume carelessly--containing
a drawing, not of Alpine aiguille, nor Italian valley, nor Spanish
posada, nor Greek temple, but of a comfortable old mansion, no way
romantically situate among swelling hills, and partially swathed in ivy.
The corner of the sketch bore the lightly pencilled letters, 'Dunore.'

And now he fancied that twelve months' travel had completed the cure,
and that he had quite conquered his affection for one who did not return
it. He was prepared to settle down in common life again, with the
second scar on his heart just healed.

Coming home by Boston, he took rail thence to Burlington on Lake
Champlain, and near the head of that noble sheet of water crossed the
Canadian frontier into French scenery and manners. The line stopped
short at the edge of the St. Lawrence, where passengers take boat for La
Chine or the island of Montreal--that is, ice permitting. Now, on this
occasion the ice did not permit, at least for some time. Sam Holt had
hoped that its annual commotion would have been over; but it had only
just begun.

A vast sheet of ice, a mile in breadth and perhaps ten in length, was
being torn from its holdfasts by the current beneath; was creaking,
grinding, shoving along, crunching up against the shore in masses, block
over block ten or fifteen feet high, yielding slowly and reluctantly to
the pressure of the deep tide below, which sometimes with a tremendous
noise forced the hummocks into long ridges. The French Canadians call
these 'bourdigneaux.'

The sights, the sounds, were little short of sublime. But when night
came down with its added stillness, then the heaving, grating, tearing,
wrenching noises were as of some prodigious hidden strength, riving the
very foundations of solid earth itself. People along shore could hardly
sleep. Mr. Holt, having a taste for strange scenery, spent much of
that sharp spring night under 'the glimpses of the moon,' watching the
struggle between the long-enchained water and its icy tyrant. Another
pass