ur diets and destinies; and where so many
are worshippers at the Temple, a word about the Priest of the Mysteries
may not be unseasonable.

And now, to change the theme, who is it that at this early hour of the
morning seems taking his promenade, with no trace of the invalid in his
look or dress? He comes along at a smart walk; his step has the assured
tramp of one who felt health, and knew the value of the blessing. What!
is it possible--can it be, indeed? 'Yes, it is Sir Harry Wycherley
himself, with two lovely children, a boy and a girl--the eldest scarcely
seven years old; the boy a year or so younger. Never did I behold
anything more lovely. The girl's eyes were dark, shaded with long
deep fringe, that added to their depth, and tempered into softness
the glowing sparkle of youth. Her features were of a pensive but not
melancholy character, and in her walk and carriage 'gentle blood'
spoke out in accents not to be mistaken. The boy, more strongly formed,
resembled his father more, and in his broad forehead and bold, dashing
expression looked like one who would become one day a man of nerve and
mettle. His dress, too, gave a character to his appearance that well
suited him--a broad hat, turned up at the side, and ornamented with a
dark-blue feather, that hung drooping over his shoulder; a blue tunic,
made so as to show his chest in its full breadth, and his arms naked the
whole way; a scarlet scarf, knotted carelessly at his side, hanging down
with its deep fringe beside his bare leg, tanned and bronzed with
sun and weather; and even his shoes, with their broad silver buckles,
showing that care presided over every part of his costume.

There was something intensely touching in the sight of this man of the
world--for such I well knew he was--thus enjoying the innocence and
fresh buoyancy of his children, turning from the complex web of men's
schemes and plottings, their tortuous paths and deep designings, to
relax in the careless gaiety of infant minds. Now pursuing them along
the walk, now starting from behind some tree where he lay in ambush,
he gives them chase, and as he gains on them they turn sharp round, and
spring into his arms, and clasp him round the neck.

Arthur, thou hast had a life of more than man's share of pleasure; thou
hast tasted much happiness, and known but few sorrows; but would not a
moment like this outnumber them all? Where is love so full, so generous,
so confiding? What affection comes so