dens, and flowers, and those philosophical peaches
which come from trees academical that Sir William Temple reared in his
graceful retirement. She does more,--she sits by her husband's side in
the library, reads the books he reads, or if in Latin, coaxes him into
construing them. Insensibly she leads hire into studies farther and
farther remote from the Blue Books and Hansard; and taking my father's
hint,--

"Allures to brighter worlds, and leads the way."

They are inseparable. Darby-and-Joan-like, you see them together in the
library, the garden, or the homely little pony-phaeton for which Lord
Ulverstone has resigned the fast-trotting cob once identified with the
eager looks of the busy Trevanion. It is most touching, most beautiful!
And to think what a victory over herself the proud woman must have
obtained! Never a thought that seems to murmur, never a word to recall
the ambitious man back from the philosophy into which his active mind
flies for refuge. And with the effort her brow has become so serene!
That careworn expression which her fine features once wore, is fast
vanishing. And what affects me most, is to think that this change
(which is already settling into happiness) has been wrought by Austin's
counsels and appeals to her sense and affection. "It is to you," he
said, "that Trevanion must look for more than comfort,--for cheerfulness
and satisfaction. Your child is gone from you; the world ebbs away: you
two should be all in all to each other. Be so." Thus, after paths
so devious, meet those who have parted in youth, now on the verge of
age,--there, in the same scenes where Austin and Ellinor had first
formed acquaintance; he aiding her to soothe the wounds inflicted by
the ambition that had separated their lots, and both taking counsel to
insure the happiness of the rival she had preferred.

After all this vexed public life of toil and care and ambition, to see
Trevanion and Ellinor drawing closer and closer to each other, knowing
private life and its charms for the first time,--verily, it would have
been a theme for an elegiast like Tibullus.

But all this while a younger love, with no blurred leaves to erase from
the chronicle, has been keeping sweet account of the summer time. "Very
near are two hearts that have no guile between them," saith a proverb,
traced back to Confucius. O ye days of still sunshine, reflected back
from our selves! O ye haunts endeared evermore by a look, tone, or
smile