the fresh air might
fan it, were all in harmony with the pride and glory of his young manhood.
Suddenly his eyes shone with a smile of welcome, as a lady came from under
the great chestnuts, which were already spreading their fan-like leaves
from every branch, and exclaimed,--

'Ah! sister mine, I little thought I should find you before me breathing
the soft pure air. It has brought the colour to your cheeks which I love to
see.'

'Methinks those who lie a-bed late lose the best of the day, Philip, and
how surpassingly lovely Penshurst is.'

'Wilton does not make it less dear, then, Mary.'

'Nay, both are beautiful, and,' she added, 'both are home now; but tender
thoughts ever cling to the place where childhood has been passed. And how
fares it with you, dear brother?' the Countess of Pembroke said, as she put
her hand within Philip's arm.

'But ill, Mary. I strive, God knoweth, to conquer, but I cannot, I cannot.'

'Nay, Philip, you shall not say so. You must conquer.'

'If I could free myself from the chain--if I could--but it maddens me,
Mary, to think she loved me, and that I was so blind, so blind. She is the
wife of a man she loathes, and I--I am to blame. I, who would have died for
her.'

'Live for her, Philip. Live to show her all that is noble and pure in your
life, and so do her good and not evil. Yes, dear brother, by nurturing this
love you do her a worse evil than you know of. Sure, you would not bring
her to a new misery, a worse misery.'

'No, no. I would not, yet I would. But the sting lies here; hearken, Mary,
to this sonnet, lately penned:--

'I might--unhappy word! O me! I might,
And then would not, or could not, see my bliss
Till now, wrapped in a most infernal night,
I find how heavenly day--wretch! I did miss.
Heart, rend thyself, thou dost thyself but right.
No lovely Paris made thy Helen his;
No force, no fraud, robbed thee of thy delight;
Nor Fortune of thy fortune author is.
But to myself, myself did give the blow,
While too much wit, forsooth, so troubled me,
That I respects, for both our sakes, must show.
And yet could not by rising morn foresee
How fair a day was near--O punished eyes!
That I had been more foolish, or more wise!'

_Astrophel and Stella_, Sonnet xxxiii.

'Dear brother,' the Countess of Pembroke said,--'these wild laments are not
worthy of you. You shall not make any man mo