having made a long pause.

"You may well be proud of them," I answered.

"It looked nice of 'em to make you a little present of something before
you went. But it was quite right. That's just as it should be. I like
that sort of thing, especially when a man understands the sperrit that a
thing's given with. Now, some fellows would have been offended if any
thing had been offered 'em. How I do hate all that!"

"I assure you, Thompson, I feel deeply their kind treatment of their
friend. I shall never forget it."

"You ain't offended, then?"

"No, indeed."

"Well, now, I am so happy to hear it, you can't think," continued
Thompson, fumbling about his breeches pocket, and drawing from it at
length something which he concealed in his fist. "There, take that," he
suddenly exclaimed; "take it, my old fellow, and God bless you. It's no
good trying to make a fuss about it."

I held a purse of money in my hand.

"No, Thompson," I replied, "I cannot accept it. Do not think me proud or
ungrateful; but I have no right to take it."

"It's only twenty guineas, man, and I can afford it. Now look, Stukely,
you are going to leave me. If you don't take it, you'll make me as
wretched as the day is long. You are my friend, and my friend mustn't go
amongst strangers without an independent spirit. If you have twenty
guineas in your pocket, you needn't be worrying yourself about little
things. You'll find plenty of ways to make the money useful. You shall
pay me, if you like, when you grow rich, and we meets again; but take it
now, and make John Thompson happy."

In the lap of nature the troubled mind gets rest; and the wounds of the
heart heal rapidly, once delivered there, safe from contact with the
infectious world; and the bosom of the nursing mother is not more
powerful or quick to lull the pain and still the sobs of her distressed
ones. It is the sanctuary of the bruised spirit, and to arrive at it is
to secure shelter and to find repose. Peace, eternal and blessed,
birthright and joy of angels, whither do those glimpses hover that we
catch of thee in this tumultuous life, weak, faint, and transient though
they be, melting the human soul with heavenly tranquillity? Whither, if
not upon the everlasting hills, where the brown line divides the sky, or
on the gentle sea, where sea and sky are one--a liquid cupola--or in the
leafy woods and secret vales, where beauty lends her thrilling voice to
silence? How often will the remembra