s brother's having such a
wife!

Yet his pleasant voice, and her husband's drawing her arm into his,
instantly dispelled all fear and regret, and her walk was delightful.

She was enchanted with St. Cross, delighted with the quadrangle of gray
buildings covered with creepers, the smooth turf and gay flowers;
in raptures at the black jacks, dole of bread and beer, and at the
silver-crossed brethren, and eager to extract all Mr. Martindale's
information on the architecture and history of the place, lingering over
it as long as her husband's patience would endure, and hardly able to
tear herself from the quiet glassy stream and green meadows.

'If Caroline were only here to sketch it!' she cried, 'there would be
nothing wanting but that that hill should be Helvellyn.'

'You should see the mountain convents in Albania,' said John; and she
was soon charmed with his account of his adventures there with Mr.
Fotheringham. She was beginning to look on him as a perfect mine of
information--one who had seen the whole world, and read everything.
All that was wanting, she said, was Matilda properly to enter into his
conversation.

Another day brought letters, inviting Arthur to bring home his bride for
a fortnight's visit, as soon as he could obtain leave of absence.

CHAPTER 3

Who is the bride? A simple village maid,
Beauty and truth, a violet in the shade.
She takes their forced welcome and their wiles
For her own truth, and lifts her head and smiles.
They shall not change that truth by any art,
Oh! may her love change them before they part.
She turns away, her eyes are dim with tears,
Her mother's blessing lingers in her ears,
'Bless thee, my child,' the music is unheard,
Her heart grows strong on that remembered word.

FREDERICK TENNYSON

'Here we are!' said Arthur Martindale. 'Here's the lodge.' Then looking
in his wife's face, 'Why! you are as white as a sheet. Come! don't be a
silly child. They won't bite.'

'I am glad I have seen Mr. John Martindale,' sighed she.

'Don't call him so here. Ah! I meant to tell you you must not "Mr.
Martindale" me here. John is Mr. Martindale.'

'And what am I to call you?'

'By my name, of course.'

'Arthur! Oh! I don't know how.'

'You will soon. And if you can help shrinking when my aunt kisses you,
it will be better for us. Ha! there is Theodora.'

'O, where?'

'Gone! Fled in by the lower door. I w