the moonlit lake, reflecting in its mirror-like surface the dark masses
of foliage that fringed its shores. It was one of those tranquil,
dreamy nights, known only in tropical countries. A subtle fragrance of
fresh buds and blossoms filled the air. The light streamed in a silvery
flood upon the tufted tops of the groves; while in the solemn shade
beneath, the serried trunks reared themselves in long ranks, like the
grey columns of some Gothic ruin.

As we sat listening to the murmur of the waterfall, the rustling of the
trees, and the distant and muffled booming of the surf, I fell into a
dreamy reverie, which was at length dissipated by Browne's voice--

"Can any thing be more beautiful than this scene at this moment!"
exclaimed he, "and yet I do not know when I have experienced such a
weariness of it all--such an intense longing for home, as I feel
to-night."

"I shall begin to believe in mesmeric sympathy," said Morton, "I was
myself just thinking of home. Home, sweet home!" and he heaved a
long-drawn sigh.

Yes! the charm and illusion of our island life had long ended. We were
tired of tropical luxuriance, and eternal summer. Glowing skies, and
landscapes like a picture, had almost ceased to gratify even the eye. I
longed for a glimpse of a rugged New England hill once more. A gnarled
New England oak, though stripped by wintry winds of every leaf, would be
a sight more grateful to me, than all those endless groves of waving
palms.

"I cannot believe," resumed Browne, "that we are destined to waste our
days in this lonely spot, elysium as it is, of external beauty. We have
faculties and desires, which can find no scope here, and which are
perishing for lack of exercise. Still it is possible. But it is a
dreary, dreary thought! I can now feel the pathos of the words of the
ancient mariner on coming in sight of his native land--

"`Oh dream of joy! is this indeed
The light-house top I see?
Is this the hill? is this the kirk?--
Is this mine own countree?

"`We drifted o'er the harbour bar
And I with sobs did pray--
O let me be awake, my God!
Or let me sleep away!'"

Browne recited the lines with a power and feeling, that affected even
the matter-of-fact Morton; Max hastened to show that he was above being
so easily moved.

"All this comes," cried he, "of lying here under the trees in the
moonlight. Moonlight certainly has a tendency to make people melancholy
and sentimental;