spect
him: see!--" and Sidney, looking then at his brother, saw, that though
he still attempted to smile, his lip writhed, and his features were
drawn together, as one whose frame is wrung by torture, but who
struggles not to groan.

He flew to Philip, who, grasping his hand, held him back, and said,--

"I have fulfilled my vow! I have given you up the only blessing my
life has known. Enough, you are happy, and I shall be so too, when God
pleases to soften this blow. And now you must not wonder or blame
me, if, though so lately found, I leave you for a while. Do me one
kindness,--you, Sidney--you, Mr. Beaufort. Let the marriage take place
at H----, in the village church by which my mother sleeps; let it be
delayed till the suit is terminated: by that time I shall hope to meet
you all--to meet you, Camilla, as I ought to meet my brother's wife;
till then, my presence will not sadden your happiness. Do not seek to
see me; do not expect to hear from me. Hist! be silent, all of you; my
heart is yet bruised and sore. O THOU," and here, deepening his voice,
he raised his arms, "Thou who hast preserved my youth from such snares
and such peril, who hast guided my steps from the abyss to which they
wandered, and beneath whose hand I now bow, grateful if chastened,
receive this offering, and bless that union! Fare ye well."

CHAPTER XXI.

"Heaven's airs amid the harpstrings dwell;
And we wish they ne'er may fade;
They cease; and the soul is a silent cell,
Where music never played.
Dream follows dream through the long night-hours."
WILSON: The Past, a poem.

The self-command which Philip had obtained for a while deserted him when
he was without the house. His mind felt broken up into chaos; he hurried
on, mechanically, on foot; he passed street upon street, now solitary
and deserted, as the lamps gleamed upon the thick snow. The city was
left behind him. He paused not, till, breathless, and exhausted in
spirit if not in frame, he reached the churchyard where Catherine's dust
reposed. The snow had ceased to fall, but it lay deep over the graves;
the yew-trees, clad in their white shrouds, gleamed ghost-like through
the dimness. Upon the rail that fenced the tomb yet hung a wreath that
Fanny's hand had placed there. But the flowers were hid; it was a wreath
of snow! Through the intervals of the huge and still clouds, there
gleamed a few melancholy stars. The very calm of the holy spot seeme