ed in the condition of a people whose
welfare was so dear to his heart, she had eagerly read all the
mission reports, and thus imbibed a keen aversion to the Sepoys, who
had become synonymous with treachery and ingenious atrocity.

Is there an inherent affinity between brooding shadows of heart and
soul, and that veil of physical darkness that wraps the world during
the silent reign of night? Why do sad thoughts like corporeal
suffering and disease grow more intense, more tormenting, with the
approach of evening's gloom? Who has not realized that trials,
sorrows, bereavements which in daylight we partly conquer and put
aside, rally and triumph, overwhelming us by the aid of night? Why
are the sick always encouraged, and the grief-laden rendered more
cheerful by the coming of dawn? Is there some physical or chemical
foundation for Figuier's wild dream of reviving sun-worship, by
referring all life to the vivifying rays of the King Star? Does the
mind emit gloomy sombre thoughts at night, as plants exhale carbonic
acid? What subtle connection exists between a cheerful spirit, and
the amount of oxygen we inhale in golden daylight? Is hope, radiant
warm sunny hope, only one of those "beings woven of air by light,"
whereof Moleschott wrote?

To Regina the sad vigil seemed interminable, and soon after the clock
struck four she hailed with inexpressible delight the peculiarly
shrill crowing of her favourite white Leghorn cock, which she knew
heralded the advent of day. The China geese responded from their
corner of the fowlyard, and amid the _reveille_ of the poultry Hannah
rose, crept stealthily to the table and extinguished the lamp.
Intently listening to every movement, Regina felt assured she was
dressing rapidly, and in a few moments the tremulous motion of the
floor, and the carefully guarded sound of the bolt turned slowly,
told her that the old woman had started to fulfil her promise.

Having fully determined her own course, the girl lost no time in
reflection, but hastily fastening her clothes took her shoes in one
hand, the cane in the other, and limping to the glass door softly
unlocked it, loosened the outside Venetian blinds, and sat down on
the steps leading to the garden. Taking off the bandage, she slipped
her shoe on the sprained foot, and wrapping a light white shawl
around her, made her way slowly down the walk that wound toward the
church.

Unaccustomed to the cane, she used it with great difficulty,