almost be said to exist here for Reginald alone, these young and gentle charms presented a contrast to all this, the effects of which we shall leave the reader to picture for himself, if indeed enough has not been said already to give some guidance to his imagination.

CHAPTER IV.

THE gay winter, the gayer spring had passed away; the summer was now approaching to its richest period of splendour, and, in the course of two days, Reginald was to bid adieu for a season to the scene of all his follies, and return for several months to the sequestered valley where he had first breathed the air of heaven, and where so many careless and happy summers had flown over his head. The remittance which was to furnish him with the means of travelling to the north, had been received the day before, in a letter, the overflowing kindness of which had given birth in Reginald's bosom to many emotions, besides those which the good Vicar had contemplated while addressing his distant son from the little library at Lannwell-that abode of innocence, unhaunted as yet by suspicion. Revolving in shame and in sorrow the manner in which his time had, for the most part, been wasted, and with alarm no longer to be checked, the consequences which his folly had entailed upon him, and upon his too-confiding parent, our young man bad spent a long miserable morning in solitude, and yet made but little progress in those preparations which his approaching journey required, but to which the internal conflict of so many troublesome meditations had prevented him from giving any steady or efficient application. The dinner-bell surprised him at his unfinished task, its sound reproached his slowness; but he was weary of reproaches, and he obeyed the summons with a

sort of half-sulky determination to fling his cares aside, and be Reginald himself again, "until a more convenient season."

He dined, therefore, gay to all appearance among the gay; and when dinner was over, and the usual circle had assembled round their wines and their ices beneath one of the fine old beeches of the college garden, it was he who laughed the loudest, and filled the most overflowing bumper. It was a Saturday evening, as it happened, and the young men were all obliged to quit their bottle for a time, when the chapel bell rung out. During the quiet interval which followed, Reginald, restored to those melancholy reflections, which he had made shift to toss from him amidst jovial faces, became so much depressed, that he resisted, when the service was over, every solicitation, and would not again join the party on the green. He had drank enough ere he left the shadow of the beech to fire his brain, though not to discompose his nerves, and now, that excitement having given place to the languor, which in some measure follows all excitements, he strolled forth alone in a mood of tenfold dejection, if not of tenfold bitter

ness.

Reginald wished to be alone, yet he dreaded the cheerless solitude of his chamber, and he resolved to go down to the river and row himself in a skiff until it should be dark. He walked hastily through the town, but found, much to his mortification, on reaching Mother Davies's, that every boat of every description was out, or engaged. After standing, therefore, for some time by the side of the Isis, gazing idly and vacantly upon the gay scene which its crowded waters presented, he turned himself once more homewards, more fretted, it may be supposed, than he was likely to have been by so trivial a disappointment in any more genial mood.

He had traversed the winding path of the meadow, and was about to pass through the courts of ChristChurch, that he might shun the bustle of the great

Walk, when all of a sudden it occurred to him that he had business enough on his hands for the next day; and that if he did not take this opportunity of paying a visit to St. Clement's, he should perhaps have to quit Oxford without bidding farewell to the good Priest whose kindnessess had been so unremitting-and without seeing Ellen Hesketh.

He proceeded, therefore, along that magnificent avenue, formed long ago by the ever-princely taste of Wolsey, which, at such an hour, presents certainly one of the grandest, and at the same time one of the gayest of spectacles. The high over-arching branches clothed in all the luxuriance of June, allowed scarcely one spot of the blue sky over-head to be visible; but between the tall massive trunks of the gigantic elms on the right, the bright meadow, and the gleaming river, with its hundred gliding boats and painted barges, lay full in view; while the descending sun streamed a full yellow radiance all down the broad path itself, giving to the countless groupes with which through its loug extent it was crowded, all the graceful varieties of richest light and softest shadow. The intermixture of so many dark and antique costumes with crimson scarfs and white plumes, and all the splendours of modern dress, produces an effect eminently picturesque, not very unlike that of an old Italian street in an evening of the Carnival, where a thousand black dominos and gaudy masks are continually chequering each other and contrasted. But indeed the English scene has at least one advantage over the Italian. There, all is riot, tumult, jabbering, and squawling-but here, the roof of Nature's majestic cathedral hung over an atmosphere as calm as glowing. Every thing was silent, and solemn-as if the beautiful sunset had been illuminating and enriching a pictare. The chirping of the birds, and even the lazy hum of the evening insects, were heard almost as distinctly as if no human footstep had been near them.

The silence was more in accordance with Reginald's mood than the splendour of the scene; but his imagi

nation had already travelled to St. Clement's, and he walked with unconscious rapidity past a hundred slow and lounging groupes, not one face among all which had fixed his notice even for a moment. He kept on at the same pace after he had left the great walk, and so over the bridge of Magdalene, and until he had come within sight of Mr. Keith's roof. He then paused for an instant, and when he resumed his progress, it was with slow and hesitating steps.-At length, however, he reached the threshold, and just touched the knocker. No one answered, and he repeated his knock more loudly-still not the least motion nor whisper from within. A third time he knocked, and a third time nothing but silence ensued.

He now stepped back from the door, and observing that the parlour windows were in part closed, the sudden and painful conviction was forced upon him that the family were all from home. Perhaps they have gone to some distance, he said to himself, and may not return for several days. Ten days have passed since I saw Mr. Keith-what may not have happened during that interval!

While reflecting thus, and reproaching himself for his negligence-one sort of neglect he certainly could not lay to his charge-he observed that the small wicket which leads into the Priest's garden, and through that to the chapel, was unfastened. It then occurred to him that they might possibly be engaged in the celebration of some festival of their church, and he thought there could be no harm in walking through the green, and ascertaining for himself whether any service were really going on in the chapel behind.

The lower windows at the back part of the house were also closed, and there were some little nameless symptoms which gave him more and more the notion of desertion. He stepped slowly over the little green, but had almost stopped when he perceived the Priest's accustomed garden-chair overturned. However, he went on towards the chapel, and when he had passed the thicket of laburnums by which it is divided from

the garden, he saw that the door was ajar. Afraid of disturbing the congregation, he crept very softly to the threshold, and listened--but here too all was silent. He listened patiently for several minutes, and at last heard a cough, and after that a sound not to be mistaken--the scrubbing of a broom. Upon this Reginald took courage, and gently opening the chapel-door a little wider, perceived that all was desertion-nobody there but a woman, who, with her back turned towards him, was busily occupied in brushing down cobwebs from about the frame of the altar-piece..

When Reginald's footstep sounded upon the marble floor, she turned round and screamed,-" Mary Mother, preserve us !"

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"Don't be alarmed," said our youth, arresting his steps; "I pray you, don't be alarmed. I have only come to inquire after Mr. Keith, my girl.”

I know not what induced Reginald to call her girl; for, in point of fact, she was a very comely woman, but could not be under five and thirty. She took no offence, however, at the appellation;--calming herself, she descended the altar-steps with no sign of terror upon her countenance, unless a pretty enough blush might be one. "O, I beg your pardon, sir," she said. "I protest I did'nt know who it might be, sir; but Mr. Keith's better, sir. My husband was at Witham this morning, and he is a great deal better."

"At Witham! How long has Mr. Keith been there? I never heard either of that, or of his being ill."

"Oh! Lord lovey, sir, he has had a sore time of it indeed. He has been very ill with the fever and ague, sir; and the doctors made him go to Witham-bill on Tuesday, for the change of the air."

"And his niece, Miss Hesketh, is she gone with him ???

"Yes, indeed. Lord bless us, sir! What could the old man do without Miss Hesketh? She nurses him so-you have no notion how kindly she waits on him. Poor young lady, I often think 'tis but a dull life she leads."