the broad-brimmed low-crowned hat which is thrust down to the eyes-thus habilimented, forsooth, in a fine morning of the longest day of the year? To be sure he must drink a hot goblet also, and the loquacious, chattering landlord is just coming with a drop for Coachy.

In due course of time the intelligence of the victory reached Elleringay. The Manor House was immediately thrown into boisterous confusion, every one beneath its roof felt delighted at the glorious news. It was natural that in the first flash of glad tidings such a demonstration would be given, but reflection soon asked the anxious question if Moreton had passed through that dreadful field unharmed? The more the captain pondered on the matter the more he became uneasy and restless. Being bred and brought up a soldier, and descended from a long line of warriors, he was proud his countrymen had saved their country; he was as patriotic as Agesilaus or Brutus, and he rejoiced with unfeigned joy. He was not insensible to the inestimable blessings which a general peace could not fail to insure, and to the most

obtuse it was self-evident England had never achieved such a victory. When he could command his emotion and become calm, he internally prayed that his son had survived, and, perhaps, now these inward revolvings, which could not fail to recur to the past as related to the youth, were not untinctured with remorse. He was well aware his own duplicity, his own pride of heart, had dealt clandestinely a fearful blow.

At a moment like this, any man similarly circumstanced, if not utterly lost to every proper, every generous feeling, could not avoid being at least uncomfortable, or really sorry on recounting what had transpired. Some sunny rays-some cheering hopes burst through these dark forebodings, for who could tell but Moreton would ere long return. The father felt thoroughly convinced that in the fight he would manifest unequivocal evidence of Plantagenet blood, and happy fancy-alas! deluding faculty-pictured the rapture of that hour, when he hoped welcome and love would extend their arms to greet the warrior as he bent beneath the lintel of

his ancestral home. Dwelling on this gilded vision was a pleasure inexplicable. But the conscious knowledge of his impetuous daring would, when these day-dreams were brightest, ever and anon cast a darkling shadow in Godfrey's breast, there in sudden thought to turn all night. For some time past, he had been unable to eat or sleep, and when he involuntarily reverted to the unpleasantness of the past, and the doubts and dreads of the present, he was unhappy and excited.

Some days previous to the date now spoken of, Godfrey's nervous system sustained an unpleasant shock. It was his custom to sit up ruminating after the family had long retired. One night he had sat in contemplative mood in his study-in that dingy, obscure study which the reader will call to mind; the well-nigh consumed embers over which he was seated burnt more and more dimly-the wind without howled, and sighed, and tore through the ancestral trees with all the shrill and sullen dreariness of December rather than a night in June-gullying blasts came roaring down the chimney with such

huge puffs of soot and smoke, as resembled the furious breathings of the tempest demons. The supple branches of the tall shrubs lashed unremittingly against the window, and the beating rain pattered and danced on the panes, as if the flood-gates of heaven threatened to pour a second deluge on the earth; window-shutters clashed, doors creaked and shook in unwelcome dissonance, as re-echoed by the long and dark passages of that venerable pile. The clock slowly tolled twelve. Godfrey's lamp flickered and emitted a dull and dubious light, yet he sat on-his brain was busy, and in his midnight reveries he conjured up a thousand evils, ere long, to come to him and his; trouble and anxiety had made him watchful, and he now imagined ills with a sort of presaging certainty, which, in effect, were followed by a distress almost as acute as if those imaginings had been real. He heard a noise or so he fancied-he seized the expiring lamp and hurried along the gloomy corridor.

He startles! What does he see? 'Tis an unearthly spectre gliding, as if in earthly

sorrow, along the distant gallery. It is pale and mournful, and stops and startles, as if affrighted at itself. It fixes in wondrous meaning a troubled and somewhat reproachful glance at the bodily eyes which meet its unsubstantial orbs. A sunken, grave-hued pallor tells it is destined to hurry back to its sepulchral home. A deep sabre-gash emits that crimson rivulet adown that swarthy cheek-'tis equipped for the murderous business of soldier-life-the helmet's nodding plume waves drooping and passively—the ensanguined sword, still reeking with human gore, drops from its scabbard-the silvery shade dissolves into darkness-it is goneall is very night!

'Twas Moreton's semblance-and Godfrey sank to the earth. Had his boiling and overwrought brain created in its vagaries such a being, or was it a monishing apparition come in reproof or pity, to chastise or persuade, from the sable realms of death? To reason on the subject he could not; his blood curdled and bewildered all thought, it ran sluggishly in his veins, every sense was