fragile, and dreamlike form. Poetry might liken it to the
mere frothy foam of the infant cataract, when it gushes out of the
breast of the mountain to the rising sun, which, arrested by an intense
frost, ere it can fall, in the very act of evanishing, there hangs,
still hangs, the mere air-bubbles congealed into crystal vesicles,
defying all the force of the mounted sun to dissipate their delicate
white beauty, evanescent as it _looks_. The chill and the
impenetrability of heart, kept by circumstances within him, such frost
might typify--that pure, fragile-seeming, yet durable passion, that
snow-foam of the waterfall. True it was that this fantastic fancy had
the power to draw him to his Welsh patrimony earlier than worldly
ambition would have warranted. But his after conduct--his actual
overtures were not so wildly romantic, as might appear from the
foregoing narrative; but of this in the sequel.

And where was her father--mother? Why had the law been allowed by this
eccentric lover to violate the humble sanctuary of home, at the desolate
Llaneol? What was become of the wicker chair? Was the hated Lewis to be
maintained in his usurpation of the chair of Bevan's _ancestral_ post of
steward, (for his father had been steward to the father of the squire
deceased?) Above all, was Dame Bevan to see that home of her heart's
hope, the permanent home of the harsh supplanter of her husband?
Passing over the affecting scene of poor Winifred's fainting, which drew
round her father and mother, and others from below, proceed we to answer
those queries and conclude our tale.

When perfectly restored, Winifred, leaning on the arm of her future
husband, accompanied her parents down into the comfortable kitchen,
where, by a huge fire, stood the veritable wicker chair, familiar to her
eyes from infancy, rickety as ever, but surviving its desecration by the
boys at the auction; and looking round, she saw standing the whole solid
old oaken furniture, coffers, dressers, &c., even to the same bright
brazen skillets, pewter dishes, and sundries--the pride of Mistress
Bevan's heart, the splendour of better days. Mr Fitzarthur led the old
man by the hand to his own chair, his wife to another; and then, having
seated himself by their daughter, began, over the fumes of tea and
coffee, (the honours of which pleasant meal, so needful after her
agitation, he solicited Winifred to perform,) to narrate various
matters, which we must condense into a n