folds of faint purple light; what masses of silver-edged cloud! And in the midst of all this splendour, the proud sun burst forth, riding in state through his glittering pathway.

Man is subject to the disease of melancholy. Man in general, and Englishmen in particular. The causes of the disease are numerous: sometimes it proceeds from physical or mental suffering; sometimes its cause is an ill-regulated mind, where intense susceptibility of feeling is allowed unlimited liberty, and where imagination and fancy take the reins of government from the hands of discretion and judgment; and sometimes it is the effect of a natural morbidness of disposition which possesses an unhealthy craving for food of a melancholic description.

Ernest Carlyle was guilty of no weakness, yet all the suffering of melancholy crept into his heart, now, as he stood there in the stillness of the early morning.

It has its healthy cures. A gleam of unhoped-for happiness-bright sunshine, fresh air, active exercise, lively companionship, sound literature, the solace of religion, the unwavering discipline of a determined will.

Carlyle's dearest hope was dead: yet what was he? Merely an atom in the mass of suffering humanity. What was his pain? Merely the anguish of a sorely disappointed passion-his alone, it could affect no one else, either for better or worse. One low groan escaped him, at the remembrance of Laura's exquisite voice, and the words she had sung:

"In the cruel fire of sorrow

Cast thy heart-do not faint or wail;
Let thy hand be firm and steady,

Do not let thy spirit quail.

But wait till the trial is over,

And take thy heart again;

For as gold is tried by fire

So a heart must be tried by pain."

But the Hand which crushes hope, bestows calm, and ere Ernest Carlyle re-entered Charity Cottage, the Hand had touched him, the calm had entered his soul, he had "taken his heart again," he had planned out for himself a work to do a cure for his melancholy. It should be to assist St. Erle in the keeping of his vow, and a life spent in ministering to the wants of the suffering. It should be the cheerful yielding of his own will, to that of a Higher. It should be the earnest practice of the great virtues of unselfishness and self-denial.

189

CHAPTER XX.

Seek not death in the error of your life.

"Poor child!"

WISDOM OF SOLOMON.

It was aunt Bessie's voice, as she sat alone working, one evening, a week after the ball. James Forryst had returned to Culcrowthie with an anxious heart, to preach his first sermon in the capacity of rector; Dr. Carlyle had made his promised call, and enjoyed a lengthy talk with Colonel and Miss Maxwell; Lady Horatia, fully absolved, had gone back to her aunt in London; Colonel Maxwell and his son were roaming the hills,-Laura was supposed to be in her own room.

Not so. Unable to rest, pining for a look or a word from St. Erle, longing even to see the two fluttering ends of his Scotch cap-she wandered forth alone.

She walked swiftly along, some strange presentiment throbbing at her heart—taking no count of time, or of the distance she went. She had heard from Dr. Carlyle, that the next day they intended starting for Germany: surely, surely she would see St. Erle once more.

Rothwell lay but three miles distant; Laura felt as if a breeze on the solitary cliff would do her good, and calm her. She turned her steps in that direction, unheeding the lateness of the hour, or the loneliness of the way.

It was a wild evening, and had been one of those cool, breezy days, which sometimes come so refreshingly during the heat and sultriness of closing summer.

Laura was

weary of the hot weather, and she keenly enjoyed the fierce gusts of wind which came sweeping round her, tossing her golden hair about, and putting strength into her languid frame. The moaning of the wind, the roaring of the sea, as it dashed on the rocks, seemed but the echo of the passion in her heart. Laura was startled at the strength of it-startled and alarmed. No use battling with it, however, and she quickly approached the cliff.

one.

How Nature sympathises with our moods; how marvellous is her soothing power; how she laughs and cries, mourns and rejoices with us, and tells us God and she are Laura listened thankfully to the voice of wind and sea. Gleams of light stole over that great sea now, inky clouds sailed rapidly across the changeful, darkening sky: now and then a gull, late on the wing, dipped down into the water, uttering shrill, discordant cries. Twilight had almost come, and the crescent moon rose pale and thin in a little patch of clear sky. Oh, it was an eerie evening!

There is comfort in Nature's sympathy. That old, old wind-how many voices it has; how many hearts has it soothed with its answering moan, or its wild, passionate voice, hurrying over valley and hill, mountain, river and sea. Strange thoughts it brings, strange things it speaks to those who read its mystery. It incites the waves to tell their story, -of how, deep, deep in the calm below, thousands of dead lie waiting in their cheerless resting place, wrapped in the great loneliness of the waters,-tiny babes, little children, hoary heads, fair maidens, and strong men. And of how, some day, all these souls will be washed upon the deathless shore, it may be, the heavenly shore where howling winds and fierce waves will have no place-find no responsive echo in any heart, for, there, is calm.

Presentiments are not always mere vacant wanderings

of the brain. Laura hastened on, her beautiful face quite pale, enjoying as she had never before enjoyed, the first wild evening of summer. Still that strange presentiment, as of pending evil. She looked through the gloaming, and saw a figure standing on the edge of the cliff. She came nearer, and then she saw that it was St. Erle-his head slightly raised, his arms folded, his face white, and his dark eyes. gazing out on to the tossing sea.

"A cowardly thing to do, by Jove!" she heard him. mutter; "my spirit goes against it deucedly. "Twould be a good riddance as far as the world is concerned. For myself I don't care,-for her-damn it! How hungry those waves look!"

An expression of anguish crept over his face for an instant. He came nearer that frightful precipice.

Laura waited not for her terror to abate: even in her fear, calmly and firmly she stepped along. He started as he felt the gentle touch of her hand upon his arm.

'What a foolish thing to do," she said, almost sharply, drawing him away; "don't you know the wind is high, and one of those gusts is quite sufficient to cause even a strong man to lose his balance. You presume on your own strength, Lord St. Erle. I am afraid of being blown away myself."

"Are you?" he said; and his strong right arm was thrown round her.

"There, my darling; yes, my darling; you are safe

now."

Very safe she felt with that arm round her.

"I'll not do it again," he said; "it was a fool's trick, a weak-minded, selfish proceeding, but I was possessed, I think, just then. It would be so easy to annihilate oneself you see; ten minutes would do it, and it would save a