were, tinged with a reflected light; everything
earthly seems to pass away from me, and I feel as though fetters had
fallen from my soul, and I _know_ that I am near my mother. Then
everything passes, and I am left myself again."

"And what are the thoughts you have at these times?"

"Ah! I wish I could tell you; they pass away with her who brought
them, leaving nothing but a vague after-glow in my mind like that in
the sky after the sun has set. But now look at the view; is it not
beautiful in the sunlight? All the world seems to be rejoicing."

Angela was right; the view was charming. Below lay the thatched roofs
of the little village of Bratham, and to the right the waters of the
lake shone like silver in the glancing sunlight, whilst the gables of
the old house, peeping out from amongst the budding foliage, looked
very picturesque. The spring had cast her green garment over the land;
from every copse rang out the melody of birds, and the gentle breeze
was heavy with the scent of the unnumbered violets that starred the
mossy carpet at their feet. In the fields where grew the wheat and
clover, now springing into lusty life, the busy weeders were at work,
and on the warm brown fallows the sower went forth to sow. From the
early pastures beneath, where purled a little brook, there came a
pleasant lowing of kine, well-contented with the new grass, and a
cheerful bleating of lambs, to whom as yet life was nothing but one
long skip. It was a charming scene, and its influence sank deep into
the gazers' hearts.

"It is depressing to think," said Arthur, rather sententiously, but
really chiefly with the object of getting at his companion's views,
"that all this cannot last, but is, as it were, like ourselves, under
sentence of death."

"It rose and fell and fleeted
Upon earth's troubled sea,
A wave that swells to vanish
Into eternity.
Oh! mystery and wonder
Of wings that cannot fly,
Of ears that cannot hearken,
Of life that lives--to die!"

quoth Angela, by way of comment.

"Whose lines are those?" asked Arthur. "I don't know them."

"My own," she said, shyly; "that is, they are a translation of a verse
of a Greek ode I wrote for Mr. Fraser. I will say you the original, if
you like; I think it better than the translation, and I believe that
it is f