Who am I that I should judge my fellows? But
I have not seen the man yet who is worthy of my Margaret. Come, is not
that a lover-like speech; Hugh himself might have said it. But here we
are at home; I can smell the roses in the porch; they are a sweet
welcome to a blind man, are they not, Madge?"

CHAPTER III.

UNDER THE OLD WALNUT-TREE.

Thus oft the mourner's wayward heart
Tempts him to hide his grief and die,
Too feeble for confession's smart,
Too proud to bear a pitying eye;

How sweet in that dark hour to fall
On bosoms waiting to receive
Our sighs, and gently whisper all!
They love us--will not God forgive?

KEBLE'S _Christian Year_.

Strangers passing through Sandycliffe always paused to admire the
picturesque old Grange, with its curious gables and fantastically
twisted chimneys, its mullion windows and red-brick walls half
smothered in ivy, while all sorts of creepers festooned the deep,
shady porch, with its long oaken benches that looked so cool and
inviting on a hot summer's day, while the ever-open door gave a
glimpse of a hall furnished like a sitting-room, with a glass door
leading to a broad, gravel terrace. The smoothly shaved lawn in front
of the house was shaded by two magnificent elms; a quaint old garden
full of sweet-smelling, old-fashioned flowers lay below the terrace,
and a curious yew-tree walk bordered one side. This was Mr. Ferrers's
favorite walk, where he pondered over the subject for his Sunday's
sermons. It was no difficulty for him to find his way down the
straight alley, An old walnut-tree at the end with a broad, circular
seat and a little strip of grass round it was always known as the
"Master's summer study." It was here that Margaret read to him in the
fresh, dewy mornings when the thrushes were feeding on the lawn, or in
the evenings when the birds were chirping their good-nights, and the
lark had come down from the gate of heaven to its nest in the
corn-field, and the family of greenfinches that had been hatched in
the branches of an old acacia-tree were all asleep and dreaming of the
"early worm."

People used to pity Margaret for having to spend so many hours over
such dull, laborious reading; the homilies of the old Fathers and the
abstract philosophical treatises in which Mr. Ferrers's soul delighted
must have been tedious to his sister, they said; but if they had but
known it, their pity was perfect