essed him;
as I opened them again I beheld him; and when he knelt in
prayer, I knelt too, and said, "God be merciful to me a
sinner!"

"Ellen, my love, shall you be ready to set off at nine
to-morrow? We must be at Elmsley by six.--In tears, Ellen?
What is the matter, my love? Now, really, this is childish."

"I cannot bear to go--I cannot bear to leave this place. I
shall never return to it if I leave it now. In the murmur of
the river--in the songs of the birds, in the rustling of the
leaves, there has been all day a voice of lamentation which
has haunted me; something mournful which has sounded to me
like an eternal adieu. I have tried to exclude these thoughts,
but they return in spite of me; and when you spoke of going,
your words--"

"My dearest Ellen, I really cannot listen to such absurd
nonsense. You know how much I admire your love of the beauties
of nature--how much I appreciate your eloquence in describing
them; but when all this degenerates into sentimentality, I own
I cannot stand it."

"Dearest Edward, for you everything in nature wears a smile,
and I thank God that it is so. You have never had cause to
shrink from what is pure and bright and beautiful, with an
aching heart and a self-accusing spirit."

As I raised my eyes to Edward's face, I was startled at its
expression. There was a sternness in it which made me tremble.

"Ellen," he said, "listen to me, and mark my words. Either a
morbid sensibility, which I despise, or a mawkish affectation,
which I detest, injures the tone of your mind, and the truth
of your character. Never let me hear again of wounded spirits,
and self-reproaches, and poetic sufferings. When you were a
girl you almost frightened away my love for you by these
mysterious exclamations, and I hate the very sound of them. Do
not let me hear that my wife cannot look upon the face of
nature with a calm and hopeful eye, or on her past life with a
self-approving conscience. I know there is no reality in such
language, God knows, I should not speak so calmly if I could
suppose there was; but as you value my love, or dread my
anger, never use expressions again which in your mouth are
senseless."

"You are severe," I said, with an attempt at a smile, which
made my mouth quiver; "your wife should indeed be perfect, for
it is evident that her faults would meet with no mercy from
you."

"You think me harsh, Ellen? Perhaps I am. But look here; there
are four lines in this book (an