the world. Why don't you speak to John about sending him to College? There's the expense, to be sure.” "Pooh! that's nothing, a mere trifle would cover that; and if John would just come over with him, as I was saying, to Grypherwast, Barbara and all of us would be able to get acquainted with him together; and I dont suppose, as matters stand now-a-days, John would be at all above accepting a little help from me, if it be really so that he's too poor to be able to send Reginald to College himself."

Now, brother," quoth Miss Betty, "nothing can be kinder than all this-'tis just what I should have expected of you-'tis just like yourself. But do take my advice for once-go about it quietly and cautiously. John's a Dalton in his temper, for all his quiet looks -we've had proof enough of that, I think. Do let them come over to Grypherwast, and be with us for a little while, before you say any thing about these matters. A rash word, however well designed, might do a world of harm, Dick."

"But sister, what will Barbara say, think ye? Will she like their coming?"

"No," says Mrs. Elizabeth, "I don't think she will -at least not just at the first blush of the business---(you know how she hated the idea of coming to Thorwold even)-but never mind, she'll soon get reconciled."

"Yes, yes," says the Squire, "I'm sure she'll get reconciled--she'll soon, as you say, get quite reconciled, and then all parties will be pleased.'

"Hum!" muttered Betty to herself, "I'm not quite sure of that neither."--But whatever Mrs. Betty's thought was, she did not choose to let her brother hear any thing of it; so, for the present, we also shall respect the lady's secret.

CHAPTER VIII.

It was on the same morning, while a gay and merry party were assembled round the breakfast-table at Thorwold-hall, the Vicar of Lannwell having gathered from his pillow that resolution which he could not command the evening before, at length told his son the story of which the reader must have collected some notion from the dialogue in the last chapter. I shall not, however, now repeat it as he told it, both because that would occupy more space than I can afford, and because the Vicar (even had he told all he himself knew, which he did not, and indeed could not do,) would still have left untold much that the reader of his son's history may be the better for learning.

Leaving it to the reader's own sagacity to discover where I am most likely to be going beyond the communication of the father to the son, I shall, without farther preamble, give him some of the information at my disposal, in the shape of a brief and connected sketch.

John Dalton's father was, like his son, a clergyman. He had, rather late in life, been presented to a college living in the west of England, on which he immediately settled; and marrying the daughter of one of the neighbouring gentry, he became so much tied to that part of the country, that he had but slender opportunities of keeping up his intimacy with the members of his own family in the north. He died just about the time when his son John was fit for going to the university, leaving him in possession of a small patrimony, the greater part of which was necessaaily expended in the course of a few years residence at Oxford.

John, having taken his degree with some eclat, obained, through the kindness of a young gentleman ucated at the same college with himself, the small

benefice of Lannwell, where, as we have seen, he spent the remainder of his life. On arriving in that part of England, he naturally lost no time in repairing to Grypherwast-hall, where Mr. Richard Dalton received him with all the ready hospitality of northern kinsmanship. John Dalton was at that time a very good-looking young man. Though not possessing brilliant talents, he had, being diligent and temperate, obtained for himself considerable distinction among his contemporaries at the university; and it may fairly be supposed, that when he came down to take possession of his living in Westmoreland, his manners partook of that mixture of conscious dignity and stumbling rawness, which so often marks the demeanour of a young student fresh from the triumphs and the seclusion of a college life.

Under these circumstances, it was perhaps no great wonder that he should have wanted the tact to distinguish between the open courtesy of a well-bred cousin and the attentive shyness of an admiring girl. In short, he fell into the silly blunder of supposing that Barbara Dalton (who then really was both young and beautiful) had fallen in love with him at first sight. He pondered over this flattering notion until he had banished every doubt; and at last,, one fine summer's day, ere the first three months of his incumbency were expired, he mounted his horse, rode to Grypherwast-hall, met his fair cousin in the gardens, half boldly, half bashfully told his errand, and was forthwith refused in a style which satisfied even himself, that the idea of such a thing had never entered the young lady's head before. I am almost ashamed to say how absurdly the Vicar behaved himself after this little affair was over. If he had known half as much of real young ladies, as he did of the Phædras, Sapphos, Didos, et hoc genus, he would have been aware that very few of them ever think of such matters, until they have been desired to do so, He would have looked very dolefully for a few months and taken especial care to let Barbara see how dolefully he looked, and returned again in half a year or s and tried his luck a second time. His was, I beli

the very first offer his young kinswoman had ever received, and who but a booby of a collegian needs to be told, that the most delightful moment in a young woman's life is that, not in which the first declaration is made to her, but in which she begins to reflect within herself that it has been made. In the surprise of the instant she has refused the swain; indeed if one thinks of it for a moment, what can be so unreasonable as to expect that such a modest, blushing creature shall muster brass enough to answer with a "Yes," the first time the most serious of all questions is put to her? A sly experienced hand may no doubt manage matters so that it shall be thus; he may come so often close to the point without ever touching it; he may so completely suggest, and yet so carefully abstain from mentioning; he may plead so effectually, and yet so obscurely, that the poor thing's heart is his ere he has asked it in set terms; that when he does ask it, he is conferring rather than demanding a favour; and that then a voiceless beating of the timid virgin heart is enough to attest on her part the welcome, thrice welcome termination of

Hopes and fears, a mingled throng,
And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherish'd long.

But arts like these were of course immeasurably beyond the theoretical, to say nothing of the practical attainments of John Dalton. He had read Ovid, but he knew no more of love than if he had written the notes to the De Arte Amandi. He darted headlong at the ring, and having missed it once, never thought of caracolling it gently round and round the circle, and essaying his dart again with a more leisurely aim, and a steadier hand. His first disappointment effectually satisfied him; and while, perhaps, from the moment of its occurrence, Barbara Dalton neither thought nor strove to think of any thing but him, he exerted all the force of his manhood in the struggle, to think no more of her. His unskilful Vanity had received a wound far

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deeper than she, poor girl, had ever dreamt it was possible for herself to have inflicted: and Pride was the only physician which he, in his ignorance, had ever thought of calling to his aid.

.

In short, he became a perfect recluse within the bounds of his little parsonage at Lannwell. There the image of his cousin was associated by him with no ideas but those of pain-perhaps, for there is no limit to such kinds of folly,-even of anger-of wrath. He did all he could, therefore, to banish the image from his fancy; and however much I may shock the fair reader by telling it, the result was, that he ere long was successful in doing so to a very tolerable extent. He fished in the Beck, that tumbled into the lake close beside the hedge of his garden; he took long solitary walks among the woods and hills; he ate huge rashers of bacon, drank pots of home-brewed beer, and read Greek at night, with his feet up upon the hobs. Except on Sundays, when he went to church very decently, he became exceedingly careless and ultra-rustical in his attire. There were, as we have seen, no gentlefolks resident very near him, and he would not be at the trouble of visiting those at a distance. Above all, he never once approached the gates of Grypherwast-hall; but, to be sure, the Leven Sands were between him and the seat of his kinsman, so that might be less a matter of wonder.

Barbara Dalton, in the mean time, pined and moped away for many weeks and months, always expecting another visit, from her reverend cousin. She had never mentioned what had happened to her father, so he, even more than herself, was at a loss to account for the young man's obstinate absence. At length, news came to Grypherwast, that the Vicar was married.

"Hah, hah!" said the Squire; "and so this is the upshot of the affair! One might have suspected John was in love from his never coming to see us at the Hall. I hope we shall see more of him, however, when once his honey-moon is over."