a quiet man, sir, and full of thought; and he soon saw that
it would be good for my lady that she should have a companion. So the
next thing we heard was that Amelia Temple, who had been governess over
the muir at Abbey Field, and had been several times at Redcleugh with
Mr. Orchardstoun's daughters, was engaged to come to us at the term. And
she came. The wind did not whistle that night, nor the owl sound his
horn; there was no omen, sir, and this will please you, though it does
not shake me in my faith in heaven's warnings. You see Amelia there
(holding up the candle, now nearly in the socket), I need not describe
what the painter has copied so faithfully. But master did not look
kindly on that face, beautiful as it is, with that flashing eye and
joyful expression. No, 'twas not till my lady grew distractedly fond of
her that he looked sweetly on her (in the right way) for the love she
gave to and got from her he loved the best of all the world. Oh! 'twas a
beautiful sight, sir, those women. The rose of the west was a match for
the lily of the east; then the pensive sweetness of the one, and the
innocent light-heartedness of the other, met and mingled in a friendship
without guile--a love without envy."

"Your last visit, Francis," I said, with a smile which I could not
conceal, "must have been to the poets of the library."

"'Tis only truth, sir," resumed he. "When one sees a beautiful thing
and feels the beauty--a privilege which is probably never denied at all
times to any of God's creatures, and does not belong exclusively to the
high born or the learned--he is a poet, be he a gauger or a butler. Aye,
sir, a man may be a poet when his nose is right over the mouth of a
bottle of burgundy, vintage '81."

"And not very poetical when he reflects that there is not a bottle left
in the house," said I.

"He has still 'the pleasures of hope,'" rejoined Francis, with a little
newborn moisture on his dry lips.

"Well," rejoined I, as I began to yawn from pure want of sleep, "there
is at least little of either poetry or pleasure in 'hope deferred.' We
will moisten these dry legends of the Bernards by a little of that
burgundy of theirs now."

And this chronicler of the Bernards, as well as of something better than
small beer, soon handed me a large glassful of this prince of wines.

"You will require all the benefit of that, sir," said he, "if I am to go
on with my story."

"I'm not afraid," said I, listlessly, "aft