say happy; but he does decide that he could be made happy at Woreham. Still, he has not drawn that comparison between his own. views, and those of his uncle, which I should have suggested, had I been consulted during these reflections of his. He does not even think of his uncle, when the idea of future happiness, after fortune had been acquired, presents itself. His thoughts are altogether given to another person-to Miss Aveley. Yes, there might have been perfect happiness for him-as perfect as falls to the lot of man, he knows it now-in the village, and he turned his back on it! Could the happiness ever be his? Surely that is not impossible? He says she may return unmarried, and then, if fortune be secured before that time, she may still be won. Fortune, that was the accompaniment to every thought, he was therefore eager to return to Liverpool and be at work. But his eagerness was different from that with which he had set out in life. He deemed himself to have hitherto been but a looker on. Now, he was at last to enter the lists on his own account. He girt himself manfully for the fight it is true, yet it was with a conviction which he would not have admitted before; the conviction that the battle is not always to the strong. He goes back to business feeling this, not as a misgiving however, rather as a stimulus to greater exertion; and that is right. Let us say success to him! as he once more travels the road on which he met the man who is he thinks to be his pilot to the haven, which he has yet missed-the haven into which the great Pactolus of speculation discharges its sands, heavy with gold. But I forget, that was the Lydian Pactolus-ours, the river of wealth, rolls down, paper. Success to him! and with this abrupt adieu we may leave John Hardy to his happiness, and send Benjamin to his work. His toils will not be interesting to follow in detail, and we have other matters on hand, for which we escape the Stygian pool of traffic, and like the fallen angel, we have also to wing our way into chaos. But John Hardy's happy Christmas has long been past, when we venture again into the contending elements of old and new social forms the chaos of Indian life, in the midst of which, serene, but now melancholy, Harriet Aveley is to be found. CHAPTER VIII. "Era già l'ora, che volge 'l desio A 'navaganti, e 'ntenerisci 'l cuore, E che lo nuovo peregrin d'amore Punge, se ode squilla di lontano; Che paia 'l giorno pianger che si muore." DANTE. Ir is evening, and the feeling which comes to the sailor who has that day left his home, to the pilgrim newly set forward on his journey, the feeling which comes with the first sunset, watched in loneliness, fills Harriet's bosom. On the morning of that day, her uncle had bidden her farewell. His VOL. II. H military duties-rumours of war, indeed-. had summoned him hastily away from his family. But why should Harriet be lonely and sad? Has she not her aunt, Lady Anne, with whom she has now resided some time, and who must share all her feelings of regret for the colonel's absence? A word, then, concerning Lady Anne. The late Earl of Woreham's eldest daughter had been one of that crowd of honourable ladies, for whom the peerage, baronetage, and squireage of England do not furnish. eldest sons in sufficient number. Their doom is spinster-life, which they diversify by the various methods of literature and art, wool-work and piety, ill-health and the doctor. In this feminine assemblage, however, of learned, stitching, pious valetudinarians, are to be found some of the most agreeable, and some of the best women of whom English society can boast. On the |