mes she ceased for a moment from her volume and fell into a
reverie of the morrow and of Mowbray. Viewed through the magic haze
of time and distance, the scene of her youth assumed a character of
tenderness and even of peaceful bliss. She sighed for the days of their
cottage and their garden, when the discontent of her father was only
theoretical, and their political conclaves were limited to a discussion
between him and Morley on the rights of the people or the principles of
society. The bright waters of the Mowe and its wooded hills; her matin
walks to the convent to visit Ursula Trafford--a pilgrimage of piety and
charity and love; the faithful Harold, so devoted and so intelligent;
even the crowded haunts of labour and suffering among which she glided
like an angel, blessing and blessed; they rose before her--those
touching images of the past--and her eyes were suffused with tears, of
tenderness, not of gloom.

And blended with them the thought of one who had been for a season the
kind and gentle companion of her girlhood--that Mr Franklin whom she had
never quite forgotten, and who, alas! was not Mr Franklin after all. Ah!
that was a wonderful history; a somewhat thrilling chapter in the memory
of one so innocent and so young! His voice even now lingered in her
ear. She recalled without an effort those tones of the morning, tones of
tenderness and yet of wisdom and considerate thought, that had sounded
only for her welfare. Never had Egremont appeared to her in a light
so subduing. He was what man should be to woman ever-gentle, and yet a
guide. A thousand images dazzling and wild rose in her mind; a thousand
thoughts, beautiful and quivering as the twilight, clustered round her
heart; for a moment she indulged in impossible dreams, and seemed to
have entered a newly-discovered world. The horizon of her experience
expanded like the glittering heaven of a fairy tale. Her eye was fixed
in lustrous contemplation, the flush on her cheek was a messenger from
her heart, the movement of her mouth would have in an instant become a
smile, when the clock of St John's struck four, and Sybil started from
her reverie.

The clock of St John's struck four, and Sybil became anxious; the clock
of St John's struck five, and Sybil became disquieted; restless and
perturbed, she was walking up and down the chamber, her books long since
thrown aside, when the clock of St John's struck six.

She clasped her hands and looked up to heave