es,
the falling water, the chirping birds, the softly plashing tide, all
redolent of that happy season,--the year's bright youth.

On such a day as this Alfred Layton strolled languidly through the
grounds of Marlia. Three months of severe illness had worn him to a
shadow, and he walked with the debility of one who had just escaped from
a sick-room. The place was now deserted. The Heathcotes had gone to Rome
for the winter, and the Villa was shut up and untenanted. It had been
a cherished wish of poor Layton to visit the spot as soon as he could
venture abroad; and Quackinboss, the faithful friend who had nursed him
through his whole illness, had that day yielded to his persuasion and
brought him there.

Who could have recognized the young and handsome youth in the
broken-down, feeble, careworn man who now leaned over the palings of a
little flower-garden, and gazed mournfully at a rustic bench beneath a
lime-tree? Ay, there it was, in that very spot, one chapter of his life
was finished. It was there she had refused him! He had no right, it is
true, to have presumed so highly; there was nothing in his position
to warrant such daring; but had she not encouraged him? That was the
question; he believed so, at least. She had seen his devotion to her,
and had not repulsed it. Nay, more, she had suffered him to speak to her
of feelings and emotions, of hopes and fears and ambitions, that only
they are led to speak who talk to willing ears. Was this encouragement,
or was it the compassionate pity of one, to him, so friendless and
alone? May certainly knew that he loved her. She had even resented his
little passing attentions to Mrs. Morris, and was actually jealous of
the hours he bestowed on Clara; and yet, with all this, she had refused
him, and told him not to hope that, even with time, her feeling towards
him should change. "How could it be otherwise?" cried he to himself.
"What was I, to have pretended so highly? Her husband should be able to
offer a station superior to her own. So thought she, too, herself. How
her words ring in my ears even yet: 'I _do_ love rank'! Yes, it was
there, on that spot, she said it. I made confession of my love, and she,
in turn, told me of _hers_; and it was the world, the great and gorgeous
prize, for which men barter everything. And then her cold smile, as
I said, 'What is this same rank you prize so highly; can I not reach
it--win it?' 'I will not waste youth in struggle and conflict,'